by Lyz Russo
~
In one of the cabins Federi found Marsden. He was not alone; the slant-eyed terrorist who had shoved Federi down the stairs was with him, extracting pain. Sloan. Same guy who had shot at Wolf. And who had waited for him in the cave…
Marsden’s tired eyes fleetingly found the gypsy; then he quickly looked away again.
Such a lot of blood, Federi suddenly felt queasy. His eyes narrowed. His friend had how many minutes left to live?
“Still not talking, pirate?” asked the slant-eyed one and prepared to carve another shallow but painful gash in Marsden’s triceps. Federi silently walked up to him, swiftly put his arms around the man’s head and broke his neck. The Stiletto was too darned good for this kind of scum. He stood staring at the man’s twisted shape on the grey cabin flooring, and at Marsden, and waited for the red haze to clear from before his eyes. Sloan. Scum. Like Federi. Slightly different race; but all the other variables were the same.
“Federi,” rasped the First Mate.
The Romany pulled the door closed and bolted it, and freed Marsden from his bonds.
“Hey Jon, how are you doing?” He stared at the damage. Marsden looked perforated. Blood was seeping out everywhere, and already the bunk on which he was lying was drenched in it. Cor, was he going to have reminders! At least, Federi hoped so. He shook himself and got focused.
“You sure took your time freeing me!” muttered Marsden with a weak grin. “If I don’t get into Paean’s gentle care quickly, there won’t be much left to tell!”
“Poor lil’ Paean,” sighed Federi, rolling his eyes skywards. He ripped up a bed sheet from one of the four military-style stack bunks and started to make tourniquets and pressure bandages. “Got no rum on me, pal. Don’t know how I’ll get the stuff disinfected. Right now all I can do is try to stop you from running out.”
Marsden grinned. “They’re leeches, my friend. I didn’t know I had that much blood inside me!”
“Seven litres,” said Federi, “Of which, if you lose four, you’re dead. Seen any vanishing lizards?”
Marsden rolled his eyes. Federi took that as a no.
“The Solar Wind is coming for us, Jon. I’ve sent a signal. Hang in there.”
“I’ve never asked you this, my friend,” said Marsden dreamily. “But I’d like to know before I go. I’ve always just known you as Federi. Is that your first name or your surname, and what is your other name?”
“You’re not going anywhere, Jon,” said Federi firmly. “I’ve got Captain’s Orders for you to wait for the Solar Wind. He needs you to decode the data in that capsule.”
“Oh,” said Marsden. “Okay, I’ll wait. Would have thought that Radomir…” He sighed and passed out.
“And it’s only Federi,” said Federi quietly. “There’s luckily only one of me.”
He took the key to the cabin with him when he went to “clean up”. Curse those Rebels! If Jon Marsden didn’t survive this! The compassion for the slain Rebels died in Federi. By now the only crewmembers that hadn’t already been executed were the ones that had been knocked out by the Valeriensis. He had briefly considered leaving all the sleeping dogs lie; now he changed his mind and executed them instead, with his stiletto. One small, professional incision per rebel, at the base of the throat. A hair on Jonathan Marsden’s head was worth more than all these rats together!
Federi was as thorough as with the shipwreck the day before, starting on one end and going through the entire ship, cabin by cabin, leaving nothing out. Eventually he returned to the unconscious Marsden. Except for the rats in the bilges, the two of them were now the only ones alive. Were they? He checked Jon Marsden’s pulse in his throat just to make sure. It was weak and hard to find, but still there. Blood was still coursing through his veins. The tourniquets were doing their work.
“Now we wait, my friend,” Federi said. “Hells! Just hang in there! Should have come for you first, before sending the signal!” But he knew that that would have been a death trap. The enemy would have found the dead terrorist and Marsden freed; they would have sounded alarm, and there would have been a lot more blood shed. His. The signal would never have been sent.
