by Phil Geusz
From that point on, I was just along for the ride. There'd be no more orders to give, no more leadership to display, no more grandstanding to employ. Things were about to start happening too quickly for either myself or my opposite number to have much impact anymore; what was developing would be called a 'corporal's battle' if it were fought on land, because that was the highest rank at which effective decision-making could take place in such a rapidly-swirling maelstrom. In space or at sea it was called a 'melee', however—I supposed this was because we didn't have corporals except in the marines.
By now we were well within range of the capital ships' rapid-fire batteries, and our situation was coming to resemble more and more closely that of a mosquito attempting to fly directly down the nozzle of a high-pressure water hose. The volume of fire rose and rose and rose and rose—it was just a matter of time now. I sat tall and erect in my chair, waiting calmly for the end—the tiny, unarmored little 483 would crumple and die at the first touch of enemy fire.
"Christ!" Jeffries hissed after a time. "We aren't carrying any weapons, snottie! So there's no logical reason for us to be leading this thing anymore." He shook his head. "I'm throttling back; the others will understand perfectly well that—"
But he didn't manage to speak so much as one more word before Nestor's little palm-blaster was pointed at the back of his head. "Sir?" my aide asked.
I shook my head. "I've always opened my bridge to constructive suggestions, and I'll not start making exceptions now. I even encourage discussion when time allows." Then I looked Jeffries in the eye. "Lieutenant, the Imperials are facing an imminent torpedo attack, yet they've diverted a large part of their defensive firepower to an unarmed ship. Doesn't this sound a bit irrational to you?"
His eyes were cold and hard. "Not half so irrational as leading that same charge from a smuggler's bridge," he replied.
Despite his absorption with the piloting Heinrich smirked, and I had to acknowledge that Jeffries had a point. "Well," I allowed, rocking my head from side to side. "At any rate, we're serving a useful purpose by diverting enemy fire. So if you want to know what you're dying for, that's it."
Jeffries shook his head. "Diverting enemy fire," he mumbled to himself. "It all comes down to that." Then he met my eyes again. "We ought to at least prepare to abandon ship. On the off-chance that we might survive the initial hit, I mean. At least one or two of us might."
I nodded after a second's thought. "Good idea." Then I turned to Samuel, the only space-experienced crewbunny I could spare. "Go find enough vacuum gear for us all. Those of us who can will slip into it now; it'll save time later."
"There's only two suits aboard," Jeffries interjected. "Both in my size—a primary and a spare." He nodded at Heinrich. "Your pet jarhead looks like he'll be able to squeeze into the spare. But it's survival bubbles for the rest of you."
I shrugged— the odds were it'd never matter. "Bubbles and two suits then, Samuel." Then he nodded and was off.
By then Heinrich's lips were fixed in a permanent snarl, his biceps were swollen and his eyes looked ready to pop out of his head from the stress of flying around and between so much enemy fire. Space was being lit up over and over again with bright flashes all around us—each represented the death-agony of one of my attacking ships. Would we have enough firepower left to carry out a useful attack? I doubted I'd ever know. Not once but several times I was certain we were bracketed beyond all hope, yet somehow my friend found a way to roll, pitch or yaw out of the concentration. The sweat was absolutely rolling off of him; his normally impeccable black shirt was soaked through and adorned with a delicate tracery of perspired salt. And yet somehow he was still for the most part holding true to his assigned course, driving ever closer to what obviously by now could only be one conclusion. It'd be more merciful, I decided, if the end came sooner rather than later. "You're one of the best and bravest, Heinrich," I finally said softly. "I'm honored to have served with you."
"And I with you," he somehow found time to say while executing a full barrel-roll around a heavy cruiser-sized bolt. "Thank you for letting me be part of your life, sir. It's been my greatest honor."
Next I turned to Nestor, but somehow the words wouldn't come. "I… I…" But he just smiled and shook his head. Then I looked towards Jeffries, but the malice in his eyes so soured me that I was unable to spare him a kind word, even then and there.
"Sir!" Heinrich cried out, half-rising from the controls and raising one arm to point at the screen. I looked…
…and there it was, the end of the world. A complex of incoming salvoes so dense we'd never see the other side. "Long live the—" I began. But before I could finish there was a terrible explosion somewhere close at hand, followed almost instantly by the impact of something heavy and moist and broken.
Then everything went black, and for a time I saw and heard no more.
55
Fire-Lily Day was my very favoritest of days; the more I grew up the better it got. And the prettier Freida got as well, I admitted to myself as I chased her across the dales of Marcus Prime. She'd always been bigger and faster than me; does always were until we bucks caught up and passed them in our teens. But I had another year or two to go before then, and for now it was enough to run, run, run after my someday most-perfect of all loves until she chose to let me catch her. Then we'd laugh and giggle and share secrets and eat flowers until our bellies were so full that it hurt. But something was terribly wrong—there was an awful pain in my leg, and instead of letting me catch her Frieda was fading…
Until I wasn't off in an idyllic green dreamland anymore. Instead I was surrounded by hard angles and broken pipes and sparking wires, and somewhere very close by something was screaming over and over again, just as quickly as it could inhale. I tried to move, but my left leg was pinned and every time I tried to shift the thing I felt like it must have jagged metal running all through it. Which was very probably the case, I groggily realized. "Hello?" I tried to cry. But when I inhaled, there was another stabbing pain in my chest and I began coughing something up. It was red too, and drifted about in ghastly nightmare-shaped gobbets. Obviously, the gravity had failed. I tried to call out again, but only made myself cough more. The air was ominously thin, and the blower outlet I was pinned next to was emitting a virtual hurricane. The compartment wasn't pressure-tight anymore, and someone had hit an override to route the ship's main supply in here while it lasted. But who?
The absence of gravity made it relatively easy for me to raise my head, but when I did I rather wished I hadn't. My eyes met those of the screamer, who was spread out over most of the opposite bulkhead. He was a human, though I had to judge by size to be sure, and had apparently absorbed the lion's share of the blow that'd finally done us in. Nearly completely eviscerated, he kept reaching out with the one hand he had left to try and stuff his guts back into place. There was more damage—he was missing both legs, and much of his skull was gone as well so that a large area of his brain was exposed. And all of it was bleeding, bleeding, bleeding into the thirsty thin air. It wasn't until I made out the remnants of a black uniform jacket that I realized this horrific thing had once been my friend Heinrich.
"No!" I tried to say, but instead once again I only coughed up more blood.
Then another human-shape came floating up into my line of sight. This one wore a strange mishmash of spacesuit parts, some orange and some yellow, but not quite enough to make a complete outfit. His left boot was missing, for example, which was rather a shame because it was his right leg that was missing below the knee. It was Jeffries, and he was carrying a survival bubble with a bunny in it under each arm. "Uhrghhh!" I gurgled, before choking again. "Urgghhh!"
Jeffries turned—almost half his face was a monstrous third-degree burn. "Snottie!" he said, the functional portion of his lips forming a half-smile. "I thought you'd finally died the hero's death you're so long overdue for. You didn't have a heartbeat when I checked a few minutes ago. Must've restarted itself, I suppose
. What're the odds on that?"
"Urgggggh!" I choked, pointing at Heinrich, who was still screaming mindlessly away.
"Yes," Jeffries answered, his smile fading. "He came around a moment ago; I doubted he ever would." He pushed the life-bubbles gently away from him, then turned to face my friend. "I was hoping to be spared this, you see. It's not as easy for me as you probably imagine. I don't kill either routinely or without reason, despite what others might think. And, by god, I've never yet murdered anyone. Including, I'll have you know, the former owner of this ship." Then he pulled his palm-blaster out of a pouch and pointed it at the dying marine. "Good-bye, jarhead," he said, his voice surprisingly soft. "You flew damned well." Then he pulled the trigger, there was a flash and concussion, and the screaming was over.
"Guuurrrgh!" I responded, trying to free myself again. But the pain in my leg, oh heavens the pain!
"I had to," Jeffries replied, his voice still soft and his eyes for once vulnerable. "Can't you see that? Here and now, with what I have to work with, I had to."
I looked away, then nodded. He was right—it was almost certainly a mercy. But… Poor Heinrich!
"Thank you," he replied. "I thought you were a goner too. But since you're still with us… Hold on, David. I'll be right back." Then he grabbed the bunnies in their bubbles and disappeared. A long, long time passed, so long that for a moment I found myself back on Marcus Prime on Fire Lily day again. My father had begged me to rush to the spaceport, but I stayed and played on regardless until the sky was full of Imperial aerospace fighters and the soldiers came and took Frieda and I both away together and we became mindless ag-slaves on a planet no one ever heard of, where we filled our plain, hardworking lives with love and children and no one ever asked me to plot coups or defend hopeless fortresses or free my fellow Rabbits. It was a wonderful place indeed, was that world! "No!" I muttered when I felt something tugging on my hurt leg, trying to drag me back to the flashing lights and thin air and the corpse of one of my best friends. "Leave me be!"
"Don't fight me too much," Jeffries replied with a dark half-grin. "Or I might just take you up on it." Then he grabbed my leg again. "You're stuck on a bolthead," he explained. "Or at least I think you are. It's deep, it's big, and there's no time or tools to do this right. Do you understand me?"
"No!" I answered, more than half out of my mind. Then I choked some more."Urrrgh!"
"You've never understood me," Jeffries answered his own inquiry as he bent down to examine the entry-point. "No one ever has, really. Did you know that I'm a failed priest?"
Even then and there, my eyebrows rose.
"Hah!" he declared at my evident surprise. "Keep in mind, snottie, that I was assigned to Graves Registration too, and had been there for far longer than you had. In my case it was because I could conduct burial services." Then his face grew gentle again. "When I was a boy, the world was such a wonderful and noble place. I ate it all up, you see—how the king was a servant to his people, how the brotherhood of man was a big happy family, how wars were just temporary misunderstandings." Then his eyes narrowed and he grabbed my leg. "Think happy thoughts!"
The next few seconds were horrid. I screamed too, just as Heinrich had, over and over again in piercing lapine tones. And when it was over, the bolt was still in my leg. Partway out, but not all the way.
"I was an altarboy through high school, then graduated the seminary and joined the navy. Back in those days the Graves Registration ships were even smaller than they are now, so if there was a chaplain aboard he also had to be able to stand watches and such. As a result, I went through full officer training." He smiled. "I did so well they offered me a slot on a man o' war as a regular serving officer, but I was having none of it. Someone had to minister to the needs of the dead, you see, and that was my Calling." He sighed and shook his head. "My head was so full of crap. Think happy thoughts again!" This time he pulled even harder, so that I felt one of my legbones crack and split. The bolt, however, barely shifted.
"Stubborn damned thing," Jeffries observed. "Just like you. Which is part of why I've always hated you so much. I wasn't quite stubborn enough, you see." Then he shook his head and took another breather. "In time I lost my faith. God doesn't love us, I came to realize after cleaning up my tenth or fifteenth battlefield. If He existed at all, He'd never tolerate for a moment the kind of thing you find there." The lieutenant shook his head. "They're all pretty much like Zombie was, snotty. Full of idealistic and very dead young men whose heads were filled with lies by those they trusted, killed fighting battles that matter only to the ungrateful nobles." He shook his head. "But by then I was getting on in years, you see. I was still soft enough inside back then to quit the priesthood—it cost me money, so I was a fool—but I stayed on in the navy for the pension. And did as little as possible while I was at it—why on earth wouldn't I? Everyone freeloads, everyone steals, everyone takes and takes and takes, never gives. It took me long enough to figure it out, maybe. But finally I did. That's when I quit being such a sap." Without warning he grabbed my leg and wrenched again, this time twisting it hard enough that he groaned with the effort. Finally it snapped again…
…and I drifted free.
"It was a good life," Jeffries went on as he fitted a splint and pressure-dressing in the approved navy-first-aid-manual manner. "Boring and lacking somewhat in diversion, perhaps. But there were always new middies to introduce to the joys of Graves Registration service, so it was tolerable." Then he scowled again. "Until you came along!"
I managed to raise my head again. "Urrrgh?"
"You!" he confirmed as he worked. "With your bright heroic Sword and ever-optimistic attitude and most of all your pure, clean soul! Gah! It still hurts my eyes to look at it!" Then he threw down the first-aid kit and reached for a survival-bubble. "And the harder I rode you, the brighter it shone! Until finally the day came when you were facing hopeless death. I just knew you'd break then, come along with me and save yourself and be dirty inside like the rest of us mere mortals. But you didn't, by god! Then you somehow turned things around and came out of the manure-heap even purer and better than ever!" Carefully he opened the bubble's main seam and slipped me inside. His hands were very soft, for a human's. "And I hate you for it, d'ye hear me? Hate you, hate you, hate you! Because despite having seen at least as much ugliness and dirty double-dealing as I have, you're still good and clean inside! Where I was weak, you were strong. Where I was flawed and broken, you're beyond-reproach perfect. You even transcend the evils of war itself and make it worth fighting! And I was so, so close…" Tears streamed from his working eye.
"So go to hell, David Birkenhead!" he snapped as he sealed me inside my little pressure-envelope, then activated the tiny automatic distress beacon and enviro-system. "You go straight to your perfect-perfect hell, and leave me to rot in peace in my bent and broken one from here on in! I want nothing more to do with you—it hurts far too much!" Then he shook his head and wept outright, the sobs coming faint and distorted through the thick plastic bubble walls. "I'm giving up everything in atonement for my sins, you see. Everything! And yet it's still not enough; even at this of all moments my heart remains dead and cold. As I can only suppose it shall for all eternity, after so many years of falling so short of what I should've been." His eyes fell as he pushed my bubble down the short companionway to where my two fellow lapines lay waiting. Neither was moving that I could see. Then he tethered us all together. "Good-bye, David Birkenhead! And if someday you find it in your heart to pity me, well maybe in the end that's all I deserve."
"Urgh!" I choked, half-guessing what was coming next—after all, there'd only been three bubbles on the bridge that I knew of, along with Jeffrie's two pressure suits. As near as I could tell, he'd been unable to piece together a single good suit from the damaged remains of the two. That left him… Nothing. But sealed in and as fundamentally broken as I was, all I could do was gurgle. "Urrrrrrgh!"
Then Lieutenant Jeffries of the Graves Registration B
ranch of the Royal Navy, inactive, overrode the safeties and opened the main hatchway to hard vacuum. The ghostly puffs of the exiting air propelled us bunnies away from the dangerous sharp edges of the 483's ruptured hull. They also carried Jeffries right along with us as he danced and capered in the vacuum, his mouth fixed in a long silent scream until he used the palm blaster to put an end to his pain at long, long last.
56
After that I slept, mostly. Sometimes I visited with Frieda, while at others James and I hiked side by side up long, endless hills. But even now the universe wouldn't leave me in peace; all too frequently the pressure-pack on my leg beeped insistently enough to wake me, while once there was a long series of incredibly bright flashes that I knew should've meant something to me but which somehow no longer did. Instead I smiled and drifted off again, this time to a trout cabin deep in the woods of Earth Secundus. There I finally remained, diving deeper and deeper until the darkness was roiling all through me and Frieda was beckoning with a fire lily and Father was smiling from behind his console and the King Alfred was raising a glass of chocolate milk in my honor. Then, just as I was reaching out for a cup of my own favorite tea to join the party...
...the cold, cruel universe snatched me back.
****
"Yes, sir!" a young voice was exclaiming. "It's really him! He's wearing his Sword! But the enviro-pack is flashing red!"
I blinked and looked up—somehow I was in a gravity field again, lying on the hard steel deck of a ship's boat. Near me were two other bubbles—one had already been opened, but its occupant hadn't been removed. Nor was anyone clustered anxiously around it. I knew what that meant, all right. If Nestor were dead, I decided, I'd as soon not make it myself.
"Aye-aye, sir!" the middie replied to the inaudible voice on the other end of his radio link. Then he turned to the proud, confident and neatly-uniformed Rabbit who stood leaning over me. "Don't open it, the doc says. It's too risky—he might go into shock. We're going to make a run for the ship instead." Then the young officer noticed my eyes were open. "We're getting you the heck out of here, sir! As fast as we can!"
