Bodies

Keats almost never dreamed of the war.

Some people thought he was lying when he said that those memories didn't haunt his sleep; others assumed he'd never been there, that he hadn't seen the worst of it. Only a scant few knew where he'd been, where he'd been captured. He kept it close to his chest, real personal-like, and most of the time those days let his sleep be. When he did dream of the war, though. . .it was bad.

Some things were almost certain to bring the memories to the surface, to send Keats quiet and somber. Death--especially violent death--was one of 'em. And Billie. . .

. . .well, it wasn't as though he was close to her, particularly speaking. She'd seemed a nice enough sort, but he'd never really got to talking to her, never really got to know her. So when he'd seen her lying there, dead and bled out on the floor of the cargo bay, his first thought was one of relief. It wasn't crew, wasn't Lexi's red hair splayed across the floor or Shen's tiny body lying there broken. Wasn't Rae. . .

And then his stomach clenched as he felt the emptiness, the lack of. . .something in the body. Keats couldn't explain it--he never could--but it felt off. Wrong. And it was wrong of him to be relieved when someone was dead.

It didn't matter how wrong it was. There was still work to be done, and maybe only two folk on the crew fit to do it. And the Doc did enough already.

He waited until most of the crew had gone to sleep or otherwise retired, then snuck his way back into the cargo bay, carrying a bucket of warm water and a bundle of clothing. He opened the locker where she'd been stowed, brought her out. Her body was still covered in blood, still had the shot wounds. and dirt on her. Biting back his fear, he placed a rag in the bucket, then wiped it across her face, cleaning the skin. He did that over the whole body, changed her clothes while he did it. His clothes weren't a perfect fit--he'd chosen his loosest, largest ones, unsure of how they'd fit a woman's form--but they were clean, and dignified. Or, at least, better than a sack of rags.

Keats removed a knife from her back, noticed the familiar crook to the blade. He remembered that Rae had mentioned Billie being hit by Lexi's knife. Slowly, almost reverently, he cleaned it, dried it, set it aside. He'd give it to him before he went to bed.

From his pockets, he produced a small, thick-bristled brush, and did what he could to straighten her hair, to remove the blood that had matted against it. After two hours of work on her skin, hair, and wounds, she looked more presentable. More peaceful. Not at peace--Keats knew better than that--but not covered in gore. He placed her back in the hold, took the bloody clothes and folded them into a pile, placed them at her feet before he shut the door.

On his way back to his bunk, he filched a medium jug of Blue Sun whiskey, carried it back and took out an old canteen. He poured a small measure inside, let it swirl around the metal interior before drinking it, refilled it and let it burn through his body before he stood up, holding the knife, ready to return it. . .

. . .and then it was night, and he wasn't in his bunk. He was in a valley, filled with bodies, talking to them, listening to them scream and wail, listening to the shells falling around him, one racket indistinguishable from the other, till all he heard was a rushing roar.

He was running through a field, could see men falling around him, could feel his own legs pump and his body dodge and weave, somehow missing the mines, the enemy bullets, until he was far away and completely alone. The canteen that lie at his sleeping side was now in his hand, blood smeared, as he stumbled across the field, throat parched and barely able to stand. He remembered faces, haggard as his, all hope gone. Then everything flashed green and bright, and he was hauled up, was running again, could feel his death in the footsteps following him, in the fists flaying him, felt the crack of a gunbutt against his head as he lay on the ground, staring into the empty eyes of another soldier, knowing--

--and then he was sitting up, drenched in sweat, head turning around in a vain attempt to see before he realized it was night, the lights were off. He felt someone in the bed next to him, rested his hand lightly on her back and felt her deep, even breathing. Rae. They'd--he'd spent the night. He was here. He was safe.

And yet, in the abject darkness that was only found out in the black, he found himself shaking, the beginning of tears in his eyes as he flopped back on the bed, reliving the adrenaline rush of images over and over in his head, waiting for morning.

Into Oblivion

Note: This takes place the day and night before the battle with the pirates.

Gabriel walked around Washtown, restless. He'd done his job, had gotten the word out there about Kevin's loot; from what he'd heard, they'd be leaving tomorrow for the ambush. Doing his old job again--coming up with lies, convincing others that they were truth--had given him a sense of guilty satisfaction. When it came to lying. . .he was the best.

The hard part came now--the waiting. He'd never been the best at waiting. He always felt as though he had to do something, as though there were something he was forgetting that would come back later and bite him in the ass. It was this restlessness that drove him to pace through the middle-of-ruttin'-nowhere town, looking for something to do.

He'd ended up walking behind Till's tavern on the far side of town; he was tempted to go in, but he knew he had to keep his wits about him. He kept walking until he near about walked into a man going the opposite direction.

"'Scuse me," Gabriel said as he ground to a halt and stepped to one side; he stumbled slightly as he moved; the ground was a bit uneven.

The stranger him by the wrist in order to steady him; Gabriel felt a sharp pain when he did, as though he'd wrenched too hard.

"Sorry about that," the stranger said. He was a heavyset man, and gave Gabriel an apologetic smile. "Wasn't watching where I was going."

"S'all right," Gabriel murmured, and continued on his way.

=======================================

Later that night, Gabriel sat in his one-room home, lying on his futon and staring up at the ceiling. It was almost one in the morning--he should've been asleep by now, but he wasn't. His thought were racing through his head.

Sometimes, he could almost swear he heard snippets of conversation--a word here, a phrase there. They were far off and distant, though. . .hopefully it was a good sign. Maybe it meant he was finally going to fall asleep.

. . .there was no such luck. If he was fallin' asleep, it was only halfway; the voices were distracting, kept him up. Gabriel laughed softly to himself; apparently, being half asleep was enough to keep him awake.

Thoughts started racing through his head as the night dragged on. He couldn't sleep, but he felt as though he could dream.

He was in Serenity Valley again, on that field filled with soldiers. He could hear Patrick, could see him. Except this time, he didn't hand Gabriel the canteen; he threw it, face snarling, water gushing from the opening and spilling over the bodies, turning into blood as it fell.

He leaned forward to catch it, and missed by inches, falling face first onto the bodies. . .except he never hit them. The field had become a cold, metal floor in a room with nothing but a cot with some blankets and a toilet. The room was deafening, filled with voices he couldn't recognize, couldn't remember. His neck was sore; why was his neck sore?

Trembling, Gabriel reached up and touched his neck; his hand came away stained with blood. He felt rough cotton under his fingers, felt the cool floor below him tilt and swoon, felt a rushing coldness pierce his belly and shoot through him. The voices were coherent now; they were shouting. Traitor! Murderer! You son of a bitch!

. . .there was something he needed to realize, somethign he needed to remember, that his subconscious was dragging up from the depths of his memory. The message was lost on him.

And then suddenly he was in Persephone, on the docks, holding a gun. His hand was smaller than his own, almost delicate, but it possessed an iron grip. He recognized it.

His partner. Arabella McKenzie.

Kenz. . .

He looked up, knew that he was Kenz, that Kenz was looking up. He was startled to see himself standing there, dressed in a blue-grey shirt and a pair of denim pants.

With a shock, he recognized the outfit; it was the one he'd met the day they'd met. She'd thought he was spying on her, and had got the drop on him. He'd stared down the barrel of the gun for a few moments as he desperately explained; his explanation was good enough that she hadn't killed him. They became partners, and, later, friends.

His grip on the gun was steely, unmoving. He watched as the form in front of him--as his form--opened it's mouth. "Ma'am, I--"

Without any volition on his part, his hand squeezed the trigger, and the gun fired. A neat, clean hole appeared in the figures forehead, and he slumped to the ground, dead.

. . .and back in Washtown, Gabriel's eyes opened with a start. He hadn't really slept, and the voices from his first dream had returned, whispering an undertone around him. . .though the same accusations sometimes drifted through the sound, sharp and quick, cutting him.

This wasn't going to work. He had a better plan.

He rummaged through his room until he found a green army bag. Inside, he pulled out one of two bottles. They were filled with a dark, amber liquid--whiskey, the knock-your-socks-off variety.

The voices were loud. He would quiet them.

He twisted off the cap and opened the bottle, taking a moment to inhale the strong, numbing scent. Then, after steeling himself for the moment, he lifted the bottle and drank, trying to take as much as he could in one go. After a moment--and after about half the bottle--he stopped, looking around.

The voices continued, and the far off ones disappeared all together. It wasn't better. All it left were the accusations, the slurs and hatred.

Not good enough. He drank the rest of the bottle and placed it carefully back in the bag, knocking it against the other one with a soft clink. The drink coursed through his system, firey in his veins, started blurring his vision and obscuring his hearing.

For a moment the voices were clearer than ever, screaming in his head. Gabriel collapsed onto his futon, grasping his head, gasping, whispering, ". . .stop. Please stop!"

And they did. The voices crescendoed and stopped, and he was left alone in the tent. He tried to get up from the futon, but found that his arms wouldn't support him.

It was quiet. Finally. A laugh escaped from his lips, tenative at first, but then growing louder and faster, more manic in relief, more erratic and crazy to hear. He laughed until he couldn't breathe, until his brain was too overcome by fog and slipped off, dragging him under the surface of sleep.

Seven Years Later

Jack Andresen shuffled through the ever-shrinking list of files in front of him. He was down to only five now. It had taken him weeks to narrow down the pool this far.

The first few cuts had been easy. Cut anyone whose likelihood of being a reader was estimated at less than 25%. Cut anyone under the age of eighteen, or over the age of thirty-five. Cut anyone currently employed by the government.

The later cuts were more difficult, as they were based upon less tangible criteria. Would a candidate be missed by those around him? Did the candidate have any useful skills other than their psychic potential? Did the candidate seem more or less likely to cooperate?

Those determinations took longer, required more finesse and intuition. This didn’t bother Andresen—that’s why they’d hired him.

He had a vague, shadowy idea about who “they” were. His best guess—near as he could tell—was that they were some sort of government faction. When he wasn’t looking at dossiers of completely innocent—or mostly innocent—people, Andresen was given the task of looking at vast amounts of media and intelligence on members of Parliament, searching for any inconsistency that could be used for discrediting or blackmail.

With this project, they wanted him to play a larger role in their future. He knew that he’d be intimately involved in the plan even after making the final selection. It would be his job to coerce these individuals, to persuade them to see his employer's point of view. By any means necessary, if need be.

The participants didn’t need to be willing. They just needed to obey.

His first selection would have to be careful. He wanted to begin with a success, with the subject most likely to respond to coercion. His eyes rested on one particular file:

Keats, Gabriel.

The profile was exactly what he’d been looking for; a low-profile, unimportant citizen with no substantial ties to the outside world. The subject didn’t keep in touch with any family, didn’t stay in the same place for longer than about a year. His psychic abilities had been concretely verified by the Alliance military, but they had deemed him unfit for further research.

At first, this determination had given Andresen a moment’s pause. There were any number of reasons that the Alliance might’ve tossed him aside, but Andresen didn’t see any of the traditional signs. There were no public health records on him, nothing indicating that he’d ever been involved in deeply antisocial behavior. The less he found, the deeper he dug, until he found another file.

Keats, Andrew.

The subject’s father—and his savior, if Andresen read between the lines correctly. Three days before the subject was discharged, his father had extended his tour of duty indefinitely. He’d sacrificed his retirement—his freedom—for his son.

It was almost touching, but Andresen hadn’t made any deals, and neither had his employers. The subject’s record showed that he had covert skills, shaky morality, and extreme sensitivity to amygdalae inhibitors. He was a perfect subject.

Andresen looked at the file. Last known whereabouts. They placed him on a tiny moon with only the scantest of settlements. Not an ideal place to perform an operation, but they could wait, could bide their time until he left, or until there were enough people around that he could slip in and out unnoticed.

He would do this himself. He had to. It was a matter of pride. No, it was more than that—it was a game. It was an art. And he knew he would break the subject just as sure as the sun rose.

Part Six: Awakening

When Gabriel woke up, he was in a hospital bed, covered by blankets and surrounded by machines making whirring and beeping noises. His throat hurt.

. . .why did his throat hurt?

He sat up, rubbing his head, then froze as he saw the uniformed guard sitting in the corner. The guard was older—close to his father’s age—and looked at him with a not-unkind smile.

“Do you need some water?”

Gabriel swallowed a few times. “Yes.” His voice came out rough and dry, and forming the words made pain shoot through his entire upper body.

The guard walked over to a nearby sink, filled a glass with water, and handed it to Keats. He started drinking it, grateful, until his brain fully awoke, and he remembered what happened.

The pill. They must have drugged him. . .some kind of hallucinogen. And what’d he’d done. . .

. . .he wouldn’t think about that. His head was clear now.

Hell. He was drinking the water. Who knew what kind of go se was in it. Gabriel stopped mid-gulp.

“You’re being very nice for someone who’s keeping me under arrest.” When he spoke, his voice was still a bit raspy, and it hurt like hell, but the water had made him more confident. Angrier.

“You’re not under arrest.”

“Then why are you here?”

“To give you these.” The man reached inside his jacket and pulled out a leather folder, placing it in Gabriel’s lap before retreating to the far wall.

Hands trembling, Gabriel opened the folder. Inside were several papers, printed on thick, elegant looking stock.

Certificate of Discharge.

“I’m discharged,” he said, disbelief ringing in his voice. “How in the hell did—why?”

“Do you really want to know?” Lucky son of a bitch.

Gabriel jumped at the insult, but forced his voice. “I’m sorry—what did you just say?”

“Do you really want to know?”

With a frustrated sigh, Gabriel shook his head. Must be imagining things. Must be paranoid. Hadn’t he been through enough to earn it?

“How long do I have to stay here?”

“Until you feel well enough to leave.” The guard lowered his voice, and moved close to Gabriel. “You have a reprieve, son. I’d advise that you move as quickly as possible, before the powers that be change their minds.”

As the guard spoke, Gabriel felt a powerful wave of emotion come over him; it was anger, pure and clear, more intense than he’d ever felt in his entire life. The bastard was threatening him; he should strike out; he should stop him; how dare he? He’d kill the hwun dan, watch his brains leak out. . .

A broad, wild smile emerged on Gabriel’s face, but then the feeling was gone as quickly as it had come, and he was left pale and shaking, smile fading as the horror of his thoughts washed over him. Silently, he stood from the bed, the sheets falling from his body, leaving him completely bare to the world.

“Get out,” he said, voice level.

“I’m not authorized--”

“Get the fuck out!” Gabriel screamed, voice filled with fear and rage. The guard looked at him, then nodded and backed away and out of the room, latching the door behind him.

After a few moments spent gaining his composure, Gabriel looked around the room. A set of clothes was resting in a chair on the far side of the room. He walked over, looked at them for a moment, then put them on. The feel of the fabric felt strange, alien against his skin.

Dressed and more-or-less presentable, he looked at the leather folder still lying on the bed. Without hesitation, he scooped up the folder and walked to the window.

It was so high up.

It was too high.

He sighed and headed to the door, where the guard was waiting. Wordlessly, he walked past the guard and out of the hospital, into the bright, shining lights of the Core.

Part Five: Voices

It was Gabriel’s fourth day in his cell, and he was getting nervous. The last interrogation had been bad. Nothing like torture—the Alliance was far too civilized to do that—but he’d sat in a room in front of a metal table and a mean-looking guard for something like twelve or fourteen hours—he wasn’t sure—and now he needed to sleep.

He couldn’t sleep. They’d forced some kind of pill down his throat, made him swallow it, and now he was awake. How many days had it been since he slept? He couldn’t count; it felt like a hundred, but was probably closer to two.

In the stark, harsh coldness of the cell, Gabriel had begun to feel guilty. Not for fighting—the hwun dan sons of bitches had it coming—but for betraying the Alliance. And for betraying the Independents. For betraying someone.

He couldn’t remember who.

The room was spinning, faster and faster. He knelt on the floor, pressed his head into his knees; it didn’t stop the spinning; it felt as though it was in his head, as though his brain was being scrambled inside his ruttin’ head.

And there were voices.

At first they were clear, concise; he could pick out words and phrases. Twenty-three degrees left. Am I going to be on duty tonight. Gorram Captain; wish I could tear him a new—

After a few moments, they all blurred together, a cacophony of sound and words, none of which were distinct. He clutched his head, bit back the scream that was forming deep in his chest.

And then the voices grew accusatory, started talking to him. You’re worthless. You’re a traitor. You should give up.

You deserve to die.

He wouldn’t give up. Patrick wouldn’t have given up. But the voices were so loud, and if he talked, they could stop them, it had to be the gorram drug they gave him, it messed him up, and the voices were so loud, and they needed to ruttin’ stop.

You deserve to die.

He knew one way he could stop the voices. That he could keep from talking.

He crawled over to the cot with the pristine cotton blanket that they’d given him to sleep on. Slowly, numbly, he took it up in his hands and pulled. He gnawed at it, the voices grown to the point where he could no longer hear anything; only his own thoughts.

The threads split. He pulled it apart, shredded the blanket into two long strips. He tied them together, double knotted.

You deserve to die.

There was a light fixture on the ceiling. They hadn’t seen this coming. They wouldn’t see it coming. He tied the blanket to the fixture, stood on the bed, then tied it around his own neck.

Traitor.

He jumped off the bed. It didn’t hurt. He was beyond pain.

He was gone.

------------------------------------------------------


“What the hell do you mean, ‘your son is in custody?’”

“We picked him up on Hera. He’s a prisoner of war. Normally, we’d just process him, but, since you’re his father—”

“I get it. You’re doing me a favor.”

“. . .he tried to kill himself two nights ago. We’re keeping him sedated.”

“What—where is he?”

“He’s in custody on Londinium. He was transported there to participate—”

“The program.” The tall man with the graying hair paused, wiped his eyes, and thought, this is all my fault. “Shit. You have to get him out of there.”

“It’s already been approved.”

“Then why are you calling me.”

“Because I can unapprove it.”

“Hwun dan.”

“It gets the job done. He’s still a good subject, but he isn’t the best we’ve found. He’s. . .expendable.”

“What do you want?”

“You’re scheduled to resign in three months.”

“I won’t.”

“Fifteen years.”

“Done. Now get him the hell out of there. Sir.”

Note: This is short because I'm really, really tired. I have more ideas, but I don't want them to come out crappy. personal preference.

Part Four: Eye-Dentity

The water from Patrick’s canteen had long since dried on his lips, had become a distant memory in the pain and the dry, unrelenting wind that swirled around him. The hunger and thirst were twin pains gnawing at his chest.

Guilt was the triplet pain, and the worst of them, but in the crucible of fear and starvation, it was transformed into anger, blazing hot as the sun overhead. It had been a week, and if he’d seen one man die, he’d seen a hundred. There were maybe two-hundred of them left, scattered about the field. Someone had once said that no man was an island; that someone hadn’t sat on the surface of some gorram rock, watching everyone around him die. If that wasn’t an island, than nothing was.

True, sometimes a man or a woman would walk by—might even make some attempt to talk to him. He’d answer with a few words, close his eyes, and be alone when he opened them again. Gabriel didn’t know if they’d even been there, if they were real.

He was barely conscious when the Alliance arrived; he’d felt near to death himself, burning inside and out, and to tell the truth, he didn’t hate the notion. It’d stop the burning, the thoughts rushing through his head, and the smell of bodies slowly going to dust around him.

He heard voices talking to him, but the words didn’t make sense. With a barely audible groan, he opened his eyes and saw hazy figures standing next to him, blue-grey and stark against the morning sky. Two strong arms took him under his shoulders, and lifted him up, so that only his shins were touching the ground.

Suddenly, his vision was obscured by a bright green flash; in the afterglow, he could see a small, hand-held unit was being pulled away from his face. The man holding it looked at it, frowned at the display, then looked to his men.

“Eye-dent scan says he’s one of ours,” the man said in a low voice. “He’s AWOL. Take him.”

Gabriel’s vision grew sharp and focused as the glow faded; the hatred burning in his chest also grew sharp, pierced him from front to back, hard enough to make him cry out. He shook off the man holding him and tried to run, only to receive a punch in his side.

It wasn’t enough. He staggered, but ran, took a swing at the nearest man. They caused the pain; they could take it back. He swung again and again, sometimes hitting, mostly missing, until a kick took him between the ribs and he fell to the ground gasping. Another kick hit him in the shoulder, and another in the head, until the world spun and faded into a white nothingness.

Part Three: Water

Note—for whatever reason, I’m having trouble writing the battle part. Maybe it’s because it isn’t important yet, or maybe it’s because I’ve been lucky enough to avoid being put in a battle. Therefore, what I write here is going to be even more unpolished than usual. My regrets in advance.

Gabriel’s sides ached and shoulders shook as he huddled behind a rock. When had the orders to stand down and surrender the valley been given? Two, three days ago? Five minutes ago? He couldn’t remember, and it didn’t matter. People were still fighting, and even more people were dying.

He hadn’t seen anyone from his platoon in so long. No one; not the Sarge, not Patrick, none of the fresh recruits they’d picked up just a few months before. No one.

‘Course, he knew where most of them were; dead on the ground, bled out and starting to stink. He didn’t much want to think on that. Enough people had died that an unknown sergeant ended up being in charge of things. Guy rallied the troops, made a stand, and those who still remained. . .well, they followed, and damn the orders. Of course, it was real easy to shoot back when someone else shot first.

By now, though, even a nian qing sha gua like Gabriel could see the way the wind was blowing—and, if he couldn’t see it, the gnawing pain in his stomach certainly pointed him in the right direction. He knew this wasn’t going to go well.

Any one who still fought was at this point limited to words, fists, and hurling debris. Most of the bullets had run out, though the occasional far-off burst of gunfire proved that there were still a few lucky individuals left who still had a stock of lead.

Water. He had to find water.

He stood up, using one hand to brace himself on the rock. He recognized the surroundings now; it was one of the places where his group had fought, where he’d run across the field shooting. Where’d he’d last seen folk he recognized.

With a sick, wrenching feeling that ran down his spine and out his abdomen, he realized that most of them were probably still on the field.

Couldn’t think about it. He needed water. He tried to ignore the bodies around him, tried to ignore the silence and the smell and the steps he had to take, careful to tread on the ground. One body on the far side seemed different than the others, though Gabriel couldn’t say how at first. He grew closer, then realized what it was:

The body was moving.

He ran over there, still dodging human remains and trying not to think of anything—not water, not death, just the moving man who was rapidly growing closer, whose existence meant that Gabriel wasn’t alone, wasn’t going to stay by himself forever in this guay, wasn’t going to go still and motionless and gone there on the grass. He fell to his knees next to the body, heard the groaning and the breathing of the man next to him.

No, no, not now, not in front of me. . .

It was Patrick. His tawny hair was streaked with dirt and blood, and his left leg wasn’t so much a leg as it was a swollen, bloody mass, but it was Patrick. His eyes were lightly shut, and his right hand clutched a small medal, fingered the female figure on it.

Gabriel couldn’t talk. He hadn’t grown up religiously; if he had, he might’ve known the right prayer or at least the right words to say. As it was, Patrick’s eyes opened and rolled up to look at him, widened in recognition, and Gabriel could to nothing more than to think, no, not this, anything but this.

Patrick’s lips drew back, and Gabriel couldn’t tell if it was a smile or a grimace. He found his voice again.

“Shit. . .” he said, his words catching in his throat, threatening to turn into sobs.

The smile—Gabriel was sure it was a smile—grew larger. Patrick reached down, under himself, and grabbed a large, leather container. His canteen.

“Take it,” he said, holding it out, thrusting it towards Gabriel’s hands. His voice was raspy, fading. The effort of speaking made Patrick close his eyes for a moment, then they were open again.

“I--” Gabriel was frozen, couldn’t move, couldn’t hardly breathe. His arms trembled slightly, but stayed frozen.

“Take it.” The voice was more insistent, held the ghost of an order. Wordlessly, he took the canteen, and met Patrick’s eyes. He tried to talk, but, again, the words wouldn’t come.

“Keats--” Patrick stopped mid-sentence, and his outstretched hand grew slack. The hand that was holding the medal became limp and relaxed, allowing the chain to fall loose across his chest.

Gabriel clutched the canteen. A great void opened up in his chest, and as he drew breath, it filled with air, sending a silent sob from his lips and across the field, echoing against the bodies and fading into night.