by Mike Freeman
“It's beautiful here. So beautiful.”
Havoc looked out.
“Yes, it is.”
“I mean, if you could choose a place.”
“Don't give up on me, Professor. They'll be here.”
“I never asked your name. I mean, if you don't mind.”
“Havoc, John Havoc. Pleased to meet you, Professor. And sorry to get you into this mess.”
“Do you know why they, you know...? Just a crackpot Professor?”
He genuinely didn’t know.
“I’ve no idea.”
More silence passed comfortably between them. One man succumbing to poison, the other bleeding out.
“So why do you do it, I mean, risk yourself like that?”
Havoc paused. A difficult question to answer to a dying man, while he was dying himself. Not a lot of room for bullshit there. The truth felt a little grubby – not meaningful enough. He turned the answer over in his mind.
Money, Professor, I did it to pay off my debt. I didn't have a choice. Well, I could have died instead, of course. Instead? He looked down at himself and laughed. It hurt like hell. Only one shot left. It was too soon. He felt his mind dislocating as the pain washed over him in waves. He savored the tiny gaps between breathing. He was mildly hallucinating now, drifting a little. He knew a lot about pain, more than anyone in their right mind would want to know. He knew about pain management. Concentration was the key, while you had the mental resources to do it. He focused.
“Making a living, Professor, I suppose.”
“It's an honorable thing to do.”
“Nothing honorable about what I do, Professor.”
“Oh, I thought you were...”
“No. Paid help. That's all.”
The sparkles on the surface turned to a golden glow as the sun rose higher, approaching them across the water. Small birds hopped along the waters edge, calling out to each other. The smoke trails rising from the wreckage thinned out to almost nothing. The Professor's eyes de-focused as the hytelline worked directly on his central nervous system, softening everything.
“Do you have anyone?”
“No. No one.”
“I'm sorry, John.”
Havoc felt strange being called by his first name.
“You, Professor?”
“I’ve been very lucky, John. A life full of love. I met a wonderful woman and she said yes.”
Havoc smiled.
“Kids?”
“We had a daughter. A beautiful, wonderful daughter.”
“Had?”
The Professor shook his head but didn’t answer.
Havoc grimaced.
“I'm sorry.”
The Professor paused, looking forlorn. Havoc had been in this position too many times to count, talking to the dying, just not usually dying himself. There was more coming and not a lot of time to tell it. Sad stories, regrets, all of the things you would have done differently, if only you’d known. And absolutely no time for bullshit, lies or self-deception.
“I fell out with my daughter.”
Havoc nodded, splitting his precious concentration between listening and managing his pain.
“We haven't spoken for nearly seven years. A silly argument about her mother. I said so many stupid things.”
Havoc listened as tears trickled down the Professor's cheeks.
“I miss her.” The Professor's voice cracked. “I miss her so much.”
The Professor swallowed and blinked his eyes clear. He looked over the lake and into the past.
“She was like her mother – strong, beautiful, so clever.”
Liquid dribbled out of Havoc's mouth and he coughed. Excruciating pain shot through him. He coughed again and the pain ripped a short cry from him. He felt like someone had a crowbar inside him, levering it against his organs until they ruptured. He tried to swallow the liquid coming up in tiny sips to stop himself from coughing again. He got it back under control.
“I'm sure she loves you.”
“We went on holidays when she was young. She was so bright. Brave, headstrong, she knew all the answers.”
“What would you say to her, if you could?”
“Other than I love her, I'd say don't spend your whole life regretting what you could have done but didn't. Just do it.”
Havoc nodded.
The Professor glanced at him.
“You don't have anybody?”
“Not any more.”
“Everybody has somebody, surely?”
“I wanted to kill someone.”
“Oh.” The Professor paused, trying to come to terms with such a bizarre concept. “You can't live your life that way, can you?”
“Your life had love, Professor. Not everybody has that.”
“You hate this person?”
Havoc laughed. It was agony.
“Was it worth it?” the Professor said.
“It's all I had left.”
“Who was this person?”
Havoc paused. What did it matter now?
“Forge, Claudius Forge.”
“The General?”
“That's right. General Claudius Forge.”
“Didn't he...?”
Havoc nodded.
“Four years ago, after his coup failed.”
“But you don't believe he really died?”
“Not a chance.”
“So what would you do? If he was dead?”
“I’d die a contented man.”
“Ah.”
They continued to lie together. Birds flew overhead and strutted up and down the shore. A solid block of sunlight advanced most of the way toward them. It neared their feet, promising warmth.
Havoc coughed something up. Lung? He felt like he was being tortured. His mental resources were depleting. One shot left. Not yet. Soon though.
The Professor turned to him. Havoc could see the pain creeping back in to him. He could see it in his eyes.
“It hurts, John. The pain. It's bad. I'm sorry.”
They looked at each other.
The Professor's voice sounded strained as he tried to keep it level.
“Do you have any more? I mean, spare?”
Fuck you, Havoc thought, fuck you. He was only human, after all. So much pain, one shot, two addicts. The difference between a good death and a terrible one. But the response of his value system, beneath his surface reaction, was axiomatic. You don't make a dying man beg for drugs. He reached abruptly for the Professor's hand.
“Here you go, Professor.”
“Thank you, John. Thank you.”
Two ducks floated past, quacking at each other comically. The Professor groaned. The poison induced pain was terrible at the end. Without the hytelline the Professor would have screamed himself hoarse.
The shot took effect and blurred things even more for him. It would be pretty dark in there now.
“I'm scared, John.”
“It's ok.”
“I never thought...”
“I know.”
He reached and took the Professors hand in his own. He squeezed to communicate his presence and the Professor squeezed weakly back. The Professor's skin was dark now, his face and hands a purplish black as his prisoner implant killed him. The damn pickup was late, probably wasn't coming. They were dying. And that bastard was still alive, Havoc was sure of it.
The sun reached them across the water. They were bathed in morning light, soaking in the warmth as they slumped on their rock together. The lake glowed as the water lapped gently against them. The light breeze was fresh and pure.
The Professors eyes opened suddenly.
“John Havoc? The John Havoc? From Jemlevi?”
“Yes.”
“Gosh.”
“Yeah.”
“Did you really...”
The Professor stopped as he realized what he was about to ask.
“Kill all those people, Professor?”
“Well. Yes.”
Havoc i
gnored the question. It was meaningless to him now, eleven years later. He knew the futility of explanation. People are judges, it's hard wired. And some questions don't have a yes or no answer.
The Professor’s voice was gentle.
“I will believe you, John.”
The Professor sounded as though he’d decided the answer – he knew that Havoc was a good man and simply awaited the confirmation.
Havoc twisted his head and stared at the Professor with his single eye.
“Yes, Professor, I did.”
It felt good to come out and say it, unqualified, without trying to explain. The Professor took some time to process this unexpected response. Or maybe he just didn't have an answer.
“This General was involved?”
Havoc grunted assent as the Professor relaxed back, drained. Havoc tried to clear his throat to avoid coughing. The Professor sighed.
“What does it mean, John, this revenge?”
“Killing your demons, Professor.”
“Hasn't there been enough killing?”
An obvious reference to the genocidal war crime in question. Havoc gritted his teeth. But the old man wasn’t judging. He sounded genuine.
“Nearly.”
“Does it help?”
“Yes.”
An honest answer.
“Revenge is a confession of pain.”
Havoc thought about it.
“True.”
The Professor's hand relaxed in his.
“Such a waste.”
The Professor's voice was quieter now – he was letting go of life. Havoc didn’t want him to go out thinking about genocide.
“What was your daughter's name, Professor?”
“Evie.”
“Tell me about her.”
The Professor's eyes were almost closed.
“We did proofs together. We went walking together.”
“Go on.”
“She always wanted a dog, a golden lab.”
Havoc waited. The Professor's voice was little more than a whisper now.
“Tell my daughter I love her.”
“I will.”
“I don't want to die, John.”
Havoc squeezed the Professor's hand.
“Don't worry. I'm here.”
There was silence. A minute passed. Some incoherent muttering emerged from the Professor, then his voice strengthened a little.
“Come on, Evie, let's go for a walk.”
Havoc waited.
“Bring your gloves, darling, you’ll be cold.”
Havoc held the Professor's hand, letting it happen.
“I love you honey.”
Havoc squeezed the Professor's hand.
“She loves you too.”
The Professor's eyes opened at the stimulus.
“It's beautiful here.”
Havoc looked up the valley.
“Yes, it is. It is beautiful.”
The Professor's hand gently released in his.
He was dead.
Havoc was surprised by how upset he felt. Exposed and vulnerable. When was the last time he’d spoken to someone who wasn’t out to take him for all they could get? He hoped the Professor had felt comfortable, and comforted, at the end.
One of them down. One to go.
He was in agony, streaks of pain like molten wires piercing his body. He concentrated on managing his pain. He knew what was coming. A terrible death. He grunted involuntarily; a tough man not used to showing weakness. Fleeting thoughts flickered through his mind.
Live a life based on love.
Unbearable pain ravaged him like a drill thrust in a broken tooth. So much hurt. He lay there, panting, his breathing fast and shallow. It hurt so much to breathe but the coughing was worse. Hallucinating. What does it all mean? Revenge. All or nothing.
All for nothing.
Utterly betrayed. Forge's face right in his own and full of his macho bullshit. 'Conflict makes men, Son', 'Never fight fair with a stranger, Son.' Havoc felt his frustration rise up and choke him. 'Better to be foul and conquer, Son, than to be fair and fail.'
He was racked by coughing. He spasmed in torment like a broken animal in a trap. He wasn't complaining – that wasn't his way – he just couldn't stand the pain; it was intolerable.
You're going to get out of this, he told himself, trying to focus. You're not finished. He didn’t believe it, not for a second. So unlike him.
Don’t you give up on me, Havoc. Don’t you give up on me.
So much hurt, everywhere. No escape and no respite. He couldn't cough up enough liquid to clear his throat and it filled again, choking him and causing him to cough more. He knew the moment of greatest resistance comes just before capitulation, so where was it, his resistance?
He had nothing left to give.
He felt cold inside, despite the warmth of the sun on his body. He wasn't getting enough oxygen; his blood pressure dropping as he exsanguinated, his bodily fluids leaking into, and out of, all the wrong places. His head slumped forward and liquid dribbled out of his mouth.
Fragmented images of his wife and kids flickered on the water as his agony receded. He felt numb. He welcomed it. His awareness narrowed. The Professor’s hand in his. Love. Hate. His world darkened and then faded.
He slipped away.
~ ~ ~
The water lapped quietly on the shore of the lake, the tree branches hardly moving in the light breeze. The heron lifted off the island, circled for height and then glided across the valley. The area of dark water around the two men expanded but only slowly, the movement of the water barely enough for it to spread.
~ ~ ~
Thrumming beats came in overhead, getting louder, followed by a burst of sustained noise. Spray whipped up around a circular depression on the water, the transport pushing out a standing wave as it hovered like a giant dragonfly. The operator leaned out of the side door on a cable. She took in the wreckage, the downed vehicles and the craters along the shoreline.
“Foxtrot Hotel.”
She swung free and lowered down. Two bodies. One blackened and one broken. She dropped lower.
The extraction target's head was tilted back with his face discolored and his skin ravaged by poison. Havoc's body was missing a section of skull with terrible burns down one side of his face and neck, two kinetic wounds to his abdomen and his left leg rearing out of the water at a sickening angle.
The corpses were lying next to each other, holding hands on a smooth stone that resembled a giant pebble in the water.
“They're gone.”
3.
Thirty Nine years earlier.
Trembali-9 of the Karver Republic, annexed by the Tyurin Republic.
“You know, Forge, if you give a man a fire you keep him warm for a day. But if you set a man on fire, you keep him warm for the rest of his life.”
Tyburn paused.
“At least, I think that's how it goes.”
He looked up.
Forge moaned as he hung upside down, spinning slowly on a crane hook. His hands were bound behind his back and his legs were taped together at the calves, where the hook passed between them. Forge’s naked and athletic body was grimy and coated in sweat. Beside him was a brazier and over the brazier was a grill. The grill's pattern could be traced, in a patchwork of angry burns and suppurating wounds, across Forge’s head, neck and upper body. The air stank of burned hair and scorched flesh.
“We should finish him. They'll be coming to meet him.”
Tyburn’s narrow mouth twisted in a sneer.
“You hear that, Forge? You think you've had enough?”
Forge made an odd gurgling sound.
Tyburn leaned closer.
“Are you crying, Forge? Do you want me to make it stop?”
The tortured man choked in the affirmative.
Tyburn’s voice was as sweet as honey.
“You told us everything, didn't you, Forge? You've earned it, haven’t you?”
F
orge mumbled agreement.
Tyburn’s face morphed into pure hate.
“Well you should have thought of that before you tried to give us up, shouldn’t you? Because now you’re going to burn.”
Forge’s moaning increased and his body jerked, though he was clearly spent. Tyburn moved behind the brazier.
“I have to do this, Forge. It’s not my fault. It's yours.”
Forge begged, his croaks incoherent and hoarse.
Tyburn smiled as he put his boot on the grate.
“I’m enjoying your pain, Forge. You deserve to die in agony.”
Forge lurched on the hook. Tyburn savored his victim’s ineffectual struggling.
“Goodbye, Forge.”
Tyburn thrust his boot forward and the brazier screeched across the floor. Forge snapped up at the waist as the grill slid underneath him. He moaned in desperation as he swung back and forth. Unable to maintain his position, he lowered.
Tyburn smiled.
Forge screamed as he hit the scalding grill. He bucked upward, howling for release. The stench of seared meat sliced the air.
Tyburn watched, mesmerized, as the other men turned away.
Forge twisted on the hook, thrashing as he fought for his life. But he had nowhere to go. He shrieked in agony as he smashed repeatedly into the grill. The periods where he burned lengthened as his strength depleted and he could no longer lift himself.
Tyburn’s eyes gleamed as Forge danced in his pupils. Exhausted, the condemned man convulsed spasmodically against the grill. He couldn’t scream anymore, instead emitting an undulating moan. The acrid stink was nauseating. Tyburn watched with interest as he looked forward to Forge’s agonizing demise.
A shot rang out.
Tyburn spun with his eyes blazing.
Their leader stared back at him dispassionately.
“We need to go.”
Tyburn stabbed a finger at Forge’s corpse.
“You think it would have been easier for us if we'd been taken?”
The leader walked away.
“We need to go.”
The others followed, moving across the warehouse toward the sliding doors on the far side.
Tyburn scowled in frustration. He glared at the others with disdain as he retrieved Forge’s weapon and pocketed his wallet. He was worth more than any of these weaklings. The only way to drive back Tyurin's forces was through the ceaseless employment of violence. And moderation in violence was ludicrous; the very idea flawed at conception. Violence was the necessary means and he was one of the few men who had the stomach for it. He was worth a thousand of these bleeding hearts.
