by Chris Hechtl
“Who were those other people, your family? Employees?” he asked her. She stiffened. “Sorry, I know you may not be ready, but believe me, it will help to get it off your chest,” he said.
“What do you know?” she practically spat at him, feeling defensive all over again. A part of her wanted to curl up and die. Another raged at the unfairness of the universe. He talked to her gently, trying to draw it out of her, but she started to lock in, to not say anything at all. “You talk too much,” she finally said, making him pause.
He realized she didn't want to talk about it; she had hunched up, wrapping her arms around her knees. She wore a baggy utility uniform, most likely recently replicated for her comfort by the medics. The swelling in her face was going down; the quick heal was taking hold. That was good.
“Don't you have something else to do?”
“Right now, no. My people know what they are doing. I ordered a brief stand-down to consolidate,” he said. He sat next to her, enjoying the sun on his face. After a long moment, he closed his eyes, basking in its glow. “You know,” he murmured as the slight breeze picked up to chase some of the heat away, “I missed the sun in space. The feel of the warmth, of a warm breeze …,” he shrugged. “You never know you'll miss something so simple. So primal,” he murmured.
He was quiet for a time, peaceful as they shared companionable silence. Then when he judged she was ready, he started in and told her about his past. She looked away until he got to the part where he had been captured and enslaved by the Horathians. That made her turn to study his face in surprise. He nodded grimly. His expression sent a shiver through her and forced her to look away. He went on to explain how he'd been taken as a slave, watched his friends and family battered and tortured by the Horathians. How he, a male, had been raped as well. That sparked contempt from her, and they started to argue over that. “A man can't be raped!” she insisted.
“So, what, I enjoyed getting a gun shoved in my mouth and told to get hard or get my head blown off? Had my dick wrapped in bands so I couldn't go soft even when I wanted to? Tortured for hours? Having a dick shoved up my ass? You of all people know that,” he said looking at her. She paled and gulped. “I went through that, day after day, night after night for over a year,” he said looking away for a long moment. He inhaled and exhaled slowly. She watched him, wary of his mood change. “Yeah, they are sick bastards. Sick son of a bitches who deserve to rot in hell. Their women too,” he snarled, fists balling. She went white at his rage, sidling away from him in self-defense. Suddenly he reminded her of the bastards that had hurt her. The rage he evoked was a living thing; she could feel it crackling in the air around him. He was armed too; that bothered her. If he hurt her, if he turned on her, there would be nothing she could do about it.
Finally she gave up on the argument, if only for self-defense. She didn't want to continue it here nor with her savior. “It's stupid to argue about it,” she murmured, looking away and biting her lip. She didn't quite want to concede the point, but she didn't want hear anymore. “How did you survive?”
“Through luck. Determination to survive even though I knew it was hopeless. But mostly, Irons. Fleet Admiral John Henry Irons showed up. He got caught like the rest of us, but he had aces up his sleeve,” he said with a grim smile. He related to her what had happened when Irons had shown up, the break out, the satisfaction of tearing their captors a new one, blowing most apart. “He's the reason we are here. That we're free, trained, and ready to ride to … to the rescue. Sorry, we're … late,” he finished, feeling lame.
She cried, shoulder hunched. He cried a little too. He dashed the tears from his eyes. Not for him, but for her. For all the hers and others out there who were going through what he went through. He'd come here to put an end to it. He vowed again to do so.
“It seems we're both damaged goods,” he murmured when she settled down. She hunched her shoulders further, not saying anything.
“I used to think I was dried up, that there was nothing left. I live for this now,” he said, waving a hand and slapping the marine marking on his shoulder, “to get the bastards back. It's the only future for me right now.”
She turned to look at him out of the corner of her eye, then turned fully to face him. Her hazel eyes searched his. She looked troubled he thought. She bit her lip, looking down and finally away.
“Hey, you'll find something. I know it's hard, but you will. Maybe rebuild your shop or business, who knows?” He shook his head when she didn't respond. “Focus on today, work through it. Talk to people when you feel like it. If you don't, just be there. I know, many of us know what you are going through. Every marine here went through what you and I did. I'll try not to pressure you. If I give you a hard time, you have my permission to poke me. Or hell, punch me,” he said then pretended to favor his shoulder.
She looked up in surprise, and then snorted softly. The sudden unexpected humor surprised her, making her lips quiver just a bit. It felt good to feel … good. To feel human again. To share something with someone she realized. She treasured that feeling. She didn't want to let it go, to lose the bond they were forming between them.
He smiled slightly but didn't hold her eyes. She seemed to relax a bit. He nodded. It was a start.
He had a hard time believing she really cared anything for him. He realized she was using him as an anchor, as a protector, her knight to fend off the monsters she now knew lurked on her world. Quick heal was helping her terrible wounds, but at least the majority of them were superficial. The ones deep inside her mind would take time to scar over. They may never heal completely, he thought, recognizing the same problem within his own mind and soul.
But she was shrewish to him all the time, barely tolerating him. He knew it was a part of the trauma, her response to it. He tried not to take it personally. She flinched if he got too close, like a trapped animal. To his surprise she stuck to his side throughout the night and following day, much to his bemusement. He worked, first in the HQ, then he took a turn on the guard post to free up some manpower so the marine could get some rest.
Hanna realized he was overworked when she saw him slowing down. She searched his face again and saw the signs. Command, stress, and the threat of combat was taking their toll on him. He was exhausted; as she got to know him, she realized the implants were keeping him on his feet. Her own exhaustion tore at her. She made him eat and then go to bed in the motel his people had taken over. She slept on the couch clutching a kitchen knife. She was surprised when she relaxed, expecting she'd be wide awake. Apparently she felt safe with the marines. She would never let her guard down though she thought as Morpheus took her.
>*…*<>*…*<
Race caught the IFF of Padre's armor coming near and nodded. The armor acted like a tank or vehicle, a sniper magnet. At least initially, now the enemy was wising up and giving the armor a wide berth. When one of the armored titans came into an AO, they evac'ed the area of operation toot sweet. That was fine for him for the moment; he was exhausted.
“Problem, Race?” Padre asked over the link.
“Not that I know of,” he said, nodding to the small black kid nearby. The natives had come out to get food and get information. He was slowly getting to know them. The facial recognition software he had running in his implants popped a hit. The boy's face flashed when he looked up to the marine. “Geordi, right?”
The little black boy blinked. “Yeah, how'd you know?”
“I remember meeting you and your ma briefly, kid,” Race said, pulling his helmet off. He wiped at the sweat on his brow. Geordi's eyes went wide. “What's up, kid? You need something?” Race asked, pulling out an energy bar and tossing it to the boy. He took another out for himself and ripped into it.
“No, um, yeah, I wanted to let you know there are pirates nearby. They are watching us now,” the boy said, voice dropping into a soft tone of warning.
“Keep cool, kid,” Race said casually. He pulled up his HUD and flashed a priority to Padre to hang
back and circle around, then put a tasking in for the nearest drone to check the area.
“Don't point or turn, but can you tell me where?”
“The building next to my house around the corner from here. They told us if we said anything they'd slit my ma's throat. I slipped out the back. Miyagi and the other kids were supposed to come out and swarm you for food. They were told to hold you there for a surprise,” Geordi warned, looking at the marine's kit.
“You did good, kid,” Race said, wanting to tousle the boy's curly hair but resisting the urge. From the boy's set face and eyes, he'd been through hell to get up the nerve to tell him.
“You catch that, Padre?”
“An ambush. Got it. So now what? You are the man on the ground, Race. It's a classic hostage situation, and we don't have the numbers to break them.”
“I spring the trap. You hit them from behind when they do. Level the building if you have to,” Race said.
“Shit,” Geordi said, making a face.
“Sorry, kid. If they are dealing with us, they won't hurt your ma. They'll be too busy trying to save their own necks,” Race said. He put his helmet on. “Let's not get kilt. You hang back,” he ordered. “Better yet, stay here,” he ordered.
“Bull. I'm going in ahead of you. If they don't see me soon, they'll get wise,” Geordi said, taking off at a trot. Race opened his mouth to object, but the boy was gone.
“Damn it,” he went to follow.
He rounded the corner and immediately sucked in a breath. Alarms were going off; he was being lazed by a plasma weapon. His systems immediately identified where the threat was coming from. Unfortunately, Geordi was in the line of fire.
“Down, kid!” he snapped as he went for the nearest rubble. “Everyone DOWN! INCOMING!” He bellowed, using his enhanced speakers and voice to good effect. He hoped it would be enough of a warning for the hostages to drop where they were. If they did they might survive what was coming.
Geordi slowed and started to turn just as a purple bolt of hellfire flew from the open doorway of the house he had been approaching. He screamed as he fell back.
Race couldn't deal with the kid; he had his own survival to worry about. He rolled through some rubble just in time for the plasma to hit it. The tar lit in a fire and started to turn into a molten mess.
“I've got at least a squad in there, Padre! Heavy weapons!” Race snarled, slapping out burning tar off his right pauldron. He checked his weapon; it was clear thankfully.
“On it,” Padre said grimly. There was the sound of something hitting the back wall of the building. It was hard enough for Race to feel the impact through his boots. He rolled, now certain the enemy was entertained enough to let him approach unhindered.
Just to be sure he approached in a crouch as far out of the line of fire as he could. He grimaced when he saw Geordi clutching at his face and screaming. The kid had caught a part of the corona right in the face. It didn't look good.
He heard the sounds of people swearing as they scrambled to move the crew-serviced plasma weapon around to face the armored marine in their rear. His thermal images put two men and one woman on the weapon, all with their backs to him. He grinned savagely and went in after them. A short burst caught one in the back, hit another in the back of the leg, and blew the woman's hand off. She gasped, clutching at the stump as more shots and screams came from further inside the house.
“Put a Band-Aid on it, bitch,” Race said, using the butt of his rifle to knock her wounded partner out with one hammer blow to the back of his skull. He might be useful for intel later if he didn't bleed out.
Race kicked away their sidearms, and then watched as the woman put a tourniquet on her bicep and pulled it tight with her teeth. She was sobbing the entire time, but in charge of her faculties enough to do that much.
“You want to live; you don't move,” Race growled. “Padre, you got it?”
“I got the rest. They didn't kill the hostages, but we've got some breakage. Definitely a few are worse for wear.”
“Good to hear,” Race said as a black female came out slowly. Her eyes were wide with fright. “You Geordi's mom?” She nodded dumbly. “I'm sorry, ma'am; he's badly hurt,” Race said quietly, turning to the side to let her see beyond him. Her eyes went wide, then she rushed heedlessly past to her baby. She gathered the boy up in her arms and rocked him, crying.
“Sometimes this job just sucks,” Race murmured, seeing the anguish. The boy's life would never be the same he judged.
“At least they are alive. And where there is life there is hope,” Padre said, coming up in the hulking armor. Race glanced at him, then nodded. “We've got some cleanup for you to go over. Intel is your specialty, have a blast. I didn't see any IEDs.” he reported.
“Got it. You got these?” Race asked, indicating the two prisoners.
“Oh, you betcha,” Padre murmured, picking up the fallen male by the back of his armor. He slung his rifle and grabbed the woman by her ponytail and pushed her ahead of him out the open door. “I'll send someone to pick up the gear.”
“No hurry,” Race said. He looked up and called a medical flight in. He nodded to the sobbing kids and people huddled in a nearby room.
>*…*<>*…*<
The planetary court convened over several weeks. At first it was an informal affair, at least until a county clerk found some robes from a choir to use, and Lewis handed over some pocket computers and tablets to document the proceedings.
The marines did their best to keep the proceedings fair, but everyone involved knew the fix was in. There was an overwhelming mountain of evidence showing each of the accused of various heinous acts, along with a litany of bodies and witnesses to go along with it. The accused were shell shocked by the turn of events. Those that could put up a defense, usually that they had “just been following orders.” That was met with barely concealed contempt.
Since they were on trial for their lives, Lewis couldn't put interrogators in the pickup intelligence nor cut deals with them. That was a problem; his orders stipulated to pick up as much intel as possible. He judged though that feelings were running too high, and any attempt at slowing down or potentially derailing the process could be detrimental to the political climate. He made certain to put that down in a report before he forgot it. It was a bit thin for ass covering but the best he could come up with. That and his order to turn the prisoners over to the planet's judicial system if requested.
In the third week, the first trials came through and found the Horathian's guilty of war crimes. They were sentenced a few days later. There was no means to appeal. Sentence was carried out with a grim selection of volunteers from the public. Many were family or friends of victims, and although they claimed they took no satisfaction in executing the scum, not one was sickened by it either.
“No crocodile tears for those bastards; they've earned what they'll get. What does bother me is broadcasting it. We'll have a devil of a time digging the rest of them out now that they know what to expect. I bet it'll get ugly, now that they know they have nothing left to lose,” Lewis said to Hanna. She turned to him. He shrugged. “It just makes my job harder. But I know people needed to see it. I'm not a complete ass,” he said.
She looked at the screen showing people celebrating, then turned to him with a raised eyebrow. He caught the look and held up his hands. “I … you know what, I think I've dug myself deep enough as it is,” he said and then retreated. She watched him go.
>*…*<>*…*<
“How are you doing, kid?” Race asked, feeling a bit masochistic at going in to see the boy. The hospital was back online, a battered brick building that had seen better days, but at least it kept the rain off their heads. He shook his head when he noted the boy's condition.
“I've seen him better,” a woman said. Race turned to the window to see a familiar woman standing there. She was wearing a dirty and frayed yellow sundress. “Ma'am?”
“Pamona Forge. I'm Geordi's aunt,” she said, turning. S
he eyed him then nodded. “You are the marine my son warned?”
“Yes, ma'am,” Race said, coming slightly to attention. He looked at the boy. “He warned me. Brave boy,” he murmured. The boy had lost both eyes and a lot of the soft burned flesh on his face. Currently his head was swaddled in bandages. From the boy's vital signs, he could tell he was sleeping.
Mrs. Forge shook her head, near tears. “He can't talk. He just lies there. He was so good. He loved to take things apart with his hands. Brilliant. He was going to be an engineer ….” Her hand went to cover her mouth.
“I know, ma'am. I'm sorry. I wish it had gone down differently. But if he hadn't warned me ….”
“It would have gone differently,” Pamona said shaking her head. “I adopted Geordi when he was younger; his parents died in a rock slide. He doesn't know,” she murmured. She turned back to the cracked window. She traced a fingertip near the crack. “There is a draft here. He'll need …,” she started to tear up.
“Ma'am. I ….” Race felt distress. “The boy saved my life. We've had a couple ambushes like that; the bastards … excuse me,” he said blushing slightly. “The pirates always kill the hostages. But what he did was important to me, ma'am. If it's okay with you, I'll put in for him to get medical treatment from our people when we can get it.”
Mrs. Forge turned to lock eyes with the marine. He could see hope warring with something else in her face. “When you can get it?”
“When a ship comes in to help us. For now the medics will do their best for him. I'll try to …,” he cleared his throat uncomfortably. “I'll try to get one of our people to check on him. When I can. Maybe they can put him in stasis until …,” he spread his hands helplessly.
“It would be kinder to put him out of his misery,” Geordi's aunt said, then shivered. “I love the boy, but to live a life like that?” She teared up more, hand over her mouth. “Spirits of space listen to me,” she said, waving a hand in distress.
