Reminiscent

In my later years I find myself reminiscing, re-visiting memories from times long since passed; as if I was looking down at a scrapbook which held in its pages time itself. And as I find myself looking back at my former selves with envy one single instance springs to mind.

I once thought that I hated him, that his blunt demeanour and unwavering sense of justice was what made me find him distaste him, that it was his   I soon discovered that it was not his moral code that was at fault, but instead my own. It is what predicated upon our lives that made us blame men like him for disaster and I found that it was this predator that was absent from him. It made him an outcast, a lone wanderer against the crowd; much to his enjoyment I believe.

*

Noise…Shouting…An argument…Explosion…A muffled scream…Silence.

My eyes opened in a mixture of fear and panic, I recognised the pungent smell of Star-Freighter fuel which was mixed with a strange underlining odour which gave it the overall aroma of a cooked meal served next to an oil leak. Most of the room was dark, lit only by the slow ominous red light that circled in times of emergency. I found that I was afraid, not from the lack of light in the room, or the rotating emergency siren that rotated on a far off corner; but of the sound, or lack of. The great hum of the Carrier Class Freighter’s engines could no longer be heard, the sound of its machinations once permeated through the hold of this once great Star-Ship. Though now the sound was nowhere to be heard. Foolishness caught hold of me and forced me to believe that it was nothing more than a mechanical error. There was nothing wrong, there couldn’t be. A painful tang in my left leg stopped me from moving; I blindly ran a hand over my leg, feeling for whatever injury that I had sustained. I felt the cold hard touch of steel, moving my hand ever so slightly down another burst of pain flared through my nerves. My leg had been caught underneath some sort of steel object. Another tang of fear exploded from my right shoulder, I could hear the throbbing of my flesh as it pulsated in pain. Fear gripped me in its malicious tendrils; a sensible course of action would have been to attempt to move the steel.  I was content with laying there for how long it took for power to be restored, assuring myself that help would be coming.

I was foolish in those days.

A groan echoed from somewhere inside the darkened room, I strained my neck in order to try and find where it had come from. The darkness fighting against my fantasies of company, I heard the muttering of a few choice words of profanity. Footsteps flew around the room, ricocheting off the walls. A light flickered on; it’s light illuminating what seemed to be the outcome of a stampede. Crates were upturned; chairs were on their sides separated from their counterparts. A few bodies lay on the ground, either dead or unconscious. The light swept the room searching for signs of life, “Hello?” I shouted, attempting to get the light wielder’s attention.

The light snapped to my position in an instant, reflexes as fluid as water guided the beam towards me. I shielded my eyes from the intense light with my hand, when whoever was holding the light was appeased with my situation it clipped the light onto an appointed segment on its shoulder. I still could not make out the figure. The light was intense but also focused, smashing any hopes I had of learning of my faceless companion. The light brushed over my leg, illuminating the heavy steel pipe that had fallen against my limb.

The muffled sound of large objects clumsily colliding caught my attention, it came from outside. From the vacuum of space…We were being boarded. My mind exploded with the prospects of rescue. But the figure did not seemed as assured of our liberation, the light switched off, plunging the room into darkness once more. Footsteps grew softer; there was more noise from outside now. Shouting, a woman’s scream the cry of an infant. A stifled conversation broke out from someplace close. A rough voice spoke over the others; I could only make out fragments. I heard the scraping of metal, and the knocking of steel.

The light switched back on, than back off. Footsteps grew louder as I felt the presence of the light bearer standing next to me, two dim eye shaped lights started to hover in the darkness. The sound of metal scraping on metal broke out as the weight on my leg lifted.

“Shhh,” it said. The deep, lower tones of the voice identified it as a man. Silence once again fell upon the room; the fragmented conversation once again took up root. They made no sense to me, spoken in a rough dialect that sounded somewhat Caribbean in likeness.

“Slavers,” said the light bearer. My eyes darted to the hovering lights, fear once again gripped me.

My body started to tremble, “Slavers? We need to get out we need to-,”

“Shhh!” he said again, placing a single armoured hand on my mouth, after he had removed it I gaged, the hand had tasted like death. The moving conversation sounded closer now. The light once again switched on, he lifted me to my feet supporting my shattered leg. He directed me over to a concealed corner. Crates stood stacked in front of it. Manoeuvring around them he placed me on the ground. A door swung open, the crates that were stacked against them fell over. Exclaims of profanity could be heard throughout the entire ship.  I couldn’t see them but it sounded like three or four sets of footsteps. The hovering eye-lights turned off and I felt the light bearer leave my presence. There was a moment of silence before a muffled cry, the breaking of bone and the multiple thumps of bodies hitting the floor. A scrape of metal could be heard once more. The light bearer returned to me.

“Here,” he said, handing me the torch. I switched it on and I finally saw the face of my saviour. I had seen him once before, on the freighter. He had stood silent in the corner; everyone had given him a wide berth including me and for good reason. He was a mercenary, or appeared to be one, his battle worn; grey and black combat armour had given plenty of reason for those on the freighter to believe him to be as such. Though now he looked infinitely more terrifying, his mask was half red and half black which mixed with the subtle red undertones of his scarred combat armour. It was as if the blood from his numerous horrific kills had, over time, painted it colour of his trade.

The colour of blood.

By law he was required to relinquish his sidearm that he kept with him at all times; though that did not stop him from carrying a large and intimidating combat knife, which was strapped to the base of his spine. I wasn’t entirely sure if I trusted him, what preconceptions I had about my saviour were all shattered when the light had shone the opposite way. Mercenaries were given a bad reputation; no better than thieves it was said.

“Y-You killed them,” I said, as he inspected my crushed leg with a medical precision that rivalled that of an actual professional doctor.

“Yes. Yes I did,” he said, not fazed by the monstrosity that he had just committed.

“You could’ve just strung them up or something, there was no need to kill them,” I remembered the sound of the bodies hitting the floor.

“They were slavers,” he said. As if he believed that this statement was all the explanation he needed for the fate that he had forced upon them. He finished looking over my leg and yanked the torch out of my hand, attaching it back to his shoulder.

“Your leg is fine, though your shoulder is dislocated. Stay still,” He said. I looked at him, unaware and afraid of what he was going to do next. He squatted and took hold of my shoulder and my torso.

“What are you going to d-!” I shouted; my sentence cut short as my shoulder exploded in a fiery explosion of pain which electrified nerves all over my body. I screamed in pain, his hand once again shot to my mouth, muffling my scream. This time I forced myself to not gag over the stench of his armour. He pulled me to my feet once more, my leg hurt but I found that it was nothing compared to the pain that still flared in my newly relocated shoulder. He picked up one of the slaver’s weapons that he had snatched and checked the magazine. Walking over to the pile of bodies he picked up a side arm and slotted it into his empty holster. He picked up another and threw it at me.

“What am I supposed to do with this?” I asked, in horror as I held the weapon by the grip, holding it at arm’s length as if it was a repulsive piece of trash.

“Shoot,” He muttered. The light on his shoulder illuminated the three lifeless bodies on the ground; it was here that I saw my first dead body. Their eyes were wide still surprised by their quick and well-deserved demise. Bruise marks were around their necks and their mouths were open, as if their life had clawed its way out as they had tried to let out one more word of profanity. He stepped over the bodies, showing no remorse for the part he played in their deaths. We left the room that had been our prison for these past hours, walking into the steel corridor that connected one seating area to the next. The walls were adorned with safety warnings and directions to other places on the freighter…Warning: Moving around during flight can be dangerous….Engine room: Left…Crew Quarters: Right…All Passengers please remember to secure all luggage during landing and take-off. All these and more lined the walls of this corridor, an orange light blinked on and off on the ceiling signalling some abstract emergency that had been pre-programmed into the ship’s computer. The mercenary walked silently and carefully, every step was pre-planned and executed with extreme precision. Careful not to trip over anything or anyone for that matter, which might alert the remaining slavers to our position. I hobbled behind him, his definition of ‘fine’ was certainly not the same as mine as my leg was pulsated with every step I took; the pain was bearable, but just. We neared the end of the hallway, the door that usually would be secured during flight was instead ajar. He peered through looking for any sign of trouble, but a creaking sound from behind me made him swing around. Behind me was a lone slaver, his arms raised. In his hand was a rifle its butt aimed at my face. Pure rage was burned across his face, before I could even register his movement his armed had swung. Blood splattered the corridor, the crimson colour of the liquid was contrasted against the grey of the steel corridor. A body hit the floor, its life fleeing from its soulless body.

I opened my eyes, the Slaver’s body lay motionless on the floor. A massive knife was lodged in his forehead. I looked towards the mercenary, his hunting knife was no longer resting in its holster. My body fell against the wall of the corridor, sliding down I could hear the blood pumping in my ears. My breathing was fast and erratic; I wasn’t cut out for this, for the life and death scenarios, for the killing. My inner conflict must have been apparent for the Mercenary walked over to me, nudging the body away from me and collected his knife. He placed a hand on my shoulder, his gruff voice filled the corridor. “Get up, we need to keep moving. We need to see if there are others that are alive,”

I shook my head, the nauseating movement of my temples lined everything with a thin film that made it nearly impossible for me to keep my eyes open. “I can’t do this,” I said, keeping my eyes shut to block out the startling reality that I had found myself in. Groaning the Mercenary grabbed me by the arm and pulled me up “You can and you will, we are going to get out of here. I promise,” he said. For some reason I decided to put stock in his promise, as if the simple announcement of his dedication to our survival was all that was required for me to accept brutalities that would come to pass. He turned and opened the door, this room was filled with more bodies than I cared to count, blood splatter was everywhere; it had been a massacre. “Someone will pay for this,” he growled as he walked over the bodies with more care than I seemed to show.

The creek of metal alerted us to movement outside; the mercenary grabbed my arm and took cover on the wall alongside the door that led to the corridor where the sound was emanating from.  He tightened his grip on his stolen weapon as did I with my small insignificant side arm. The movement grew louder and louder, three figures ran into the room. They moved rather fast for armoured slavers and they seemed largely unarmed. As they basked in the light, I soon saw that they were passengers like me, like the mercenary. “Help us,” one whimpered, as he pointed towards the corridor they had come from. At first I didn’t realise what he was talking about but as we listened the rumbling of footsteps echoed forward. Shadows danced up and down the walls, foreshadowing what was soon to come.

“How many?” asked the mercenary as he helped move the injured passengers away from the light of the corridor and into the darkness. “I don’t know, we never got a good look at them,” said one of the passengers as she grabbed hold of the light bearer’s hand. I didn’t think twice at this comment, but the mercenary stood silent for a second upon hearing this comment.

“How did you get away?” he asked, as if he was interrogating prisoners instead of terrified passengers.

“We, uh, we ran. We were passed out in one of the seating areas, seating area 3 I think it was,” one of the other passengers said. The other passengers all nodded in approval of their comrades retelling.

However the mercenary and I were not all that comfortable, at the mention of seating area 3 the mercenary looked at me. I couldn’t see through his mask but I knew that his eyes were filled with suspicion. I knew this for mine were filled with disbelief as well. Like it or not I was becoming more like him. It was considered a burden for a large portion of my life, but at this moment. It was not. The mercenary started to circle the passengers, holding his stolen weapon in one hand, letting its barrel lazily point at the ground. “We woke up in seating area 3 not too long ago, there were no one else there,” said the mercenary.

The passengers looked at each other in scared and fearful faces. “We, uh. We woke up before you,” said one of the passengers frantically.

“And you decided to leave us?” I asked, starting to join in of the so called ‘interrogation’ of these passengers.

“No! Of course not. We just, we just…uh…Geez help me out here!” he shouted at his companions.

“We were…captured. Yea, we were captured,” said the female passenger confidently. As if her sudden imaginary story she concocted was the greatest achievement she had ever made.

“So you’re saying. You three, you three unarmed and rather ordinary individuals escaped and eluded number of highly armed and trained slavers? I don’t think so,” said the mercenary as he lifted his weapon and held it in two hands. He continued to circle the passengers, completely disregarding the sounds of multiple footsteps echoed throughout the corridors.

“Ahh, yes. We uh escaped when they were distracted. When you uhhh escaped, the patrols,” one said quickly, so quickly that she forgot the rather enlightening piece of information.

“Heh, and how did you know that? When you were captured and all?” said the mercenary as he now pointed his weapon at the passengers, he gestured for me cover the doorway. Guessing as to what this meant I tightened my grip on my handgun and took cover on a side of the doorway. An awkward silence of sorts now hung in the air. Until one of the passengers produced a gun and shouted “Ahh screw this!”  He fired a shot point blank at the mercenary. However the bullet just lodged itself in his combat armour. Looking down at the bullet then back at its owner he fired three shots; each landing its mark and burying themselves in the skin of the shooter.

“Ahh Hell no!” said another passenger as he drew a knife and charged, not having enough time to respond the passenger tackled and jumped on top of the mercenary as the other passenger picked up her comrade’s weapon and cocked it. “Now you die,” she said, placing the gun on the mercenary’s forehead saying “C’ya!” a bullet flew through the air and found its mark. Blood flew everywhere, the sound of a man’s scream echoed through the freighter. Brain matter painted the floor and walls, adding to the bloodbath that was the unfortunate passengers of seating area 4.

I fired again, this time at the other passenger, or whatever he was. The force of the shot forced him off my companion; I hobbled over and fired again, making sure that he was dead. There was a time where I would have regurgitated at the idea of shooting a fellow human being, let alone killing one. Yet I had found myself killing not once but twice, all in the span of a couple of seconds. And I showed no remorse for my sins. There was no pity for these murderers, for these things, for these less-than people. I used my good arm to hoist my friend to his feet. He looked at me, not entirely sure what to say. “Good aim,” he said as he finally settled on something to say. He looked at the bodies on the ground. “Goddam slavers,” he said.

Walking out of that room we had found that the sound of footsteps and shadows were nothing but illusions; something to force us to help these passengers. To lure us into a trap ultimately killing us, or worse.

*

The events of that day have stuck with me for the rest of my days. I still have the scars of course, the raw nerves where my arm had been roughly relocated, my leg still hurts from time to time. But it doesn’t interfere with work. Can’t allow that. It took me months to come to terms with the ideals that the mercenary had imprinted on me. I had looked into the mouth of death, as did he. And like him, I didn’t blink.

A man in black combat armour finished writing the newest entry into his digital log. The light from the computer screen illuminated his battle worn face. “Hey,” echoed a voice from somewhere yonder. “We got a case! Been a Slaver attack, you up for it?” it yelled.

The man stood up, his combat armour was predominantly black with subtle blue undertones. He grabbed his combat mask that was half black and half blue. “Coming!” he yelled in response. He was always ready to kill some slavers. He walked out of his room, grabbing his weather worn pistol that had served him well all those years ago. He strode towards another combat-clad figure.

“You ready?” the figure asked.

“Always,” the man said as he strapped his handgun into its holster. The two figures walked into an elevator, where the black and blue of the man’s combat armour contrasted perfectly with that of his companion’s subtle red undertones.  

Author's Note

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