THE LANDING
A cold icy sea forever still, devoid of life amongst the surface. A single craft sat in the water with nets descended down either side of the deck. A blackened overcast sky loomed like a wall of nothing above it all. Icy winds blowing at high speed over waves saturated by large glaciers floating free. A dim star shining through the horizon on the brink of dusk, the deep orange glow fighting against the blueish gray of the cold fog that sat low on the waters.
The ship was helmed by two men. One older while the other was much younger. A father and son out on the sea to catch fish for their hometown, Dale. Hugh Lavender, the elder, had been raised on the sea. His father before him intent on passing down their ancestral lineage of Polynesian sailing from family long-forgotten on Earth, a planet that was held in a mythical status to the people of this world. But it wasn’t until his old age that Hugh could actually explore his heritage, so many years amongst the stars fighting for his people’s right to freedom, eventually leaving him here. Rinold-- the name given to the planet by settlers who settled it nearly two centuries ago. Before that it was named Borealis-7, being the seventh body out from the star of the same name.
Rinold was settled very sparsely. The frontiersman who had come here seeking to get away from the galaxy-spanning empires that controlled the other sects of human civilization across the stars. For two-hundred and twenty-two years a few small towns were scattered in small green oases amidst the unbearable snowy climate that covered most of the world. Patches of grass grown from seeds that originated on Earth. Their star on its last limbs, not producing the warmth of a world like Earth as it neared the end of its cycle. Being the only habitable world in the system, Rinold was praised for it’s sheltering of humanity in a corner of the Milky Way that seemed pointless to try and survive in, but it provided just enough for the people of Rinold to thrive.
Hugh grabbed a strong hold of a large length of rope. His thick paws weathered by a lifetime of labor and hard work. It was cold to the touch and stiff from the water that had been absorbed into the fibers freezing over. With a small hammer he went down the length and smacked the rope in an attempt to break apart the ice. Each slam of the tool cracked it as it slowly came loose. Eventually once it had been forcefully thawed, Hugh heaved the length up onto the edge of the ship around a wheel. Slowly turning a crank that drew in the rope, wrapping it all the way around on the spool. The ship’s anchor, which he was putting up, rose into position as the craft began to gently shift with the currents. The man was older and heavy, his body no longer at its peak, as it hadn’t been for some time. A round belly covered by layers of coats and jackets. Short gray hair that reached around his head, a bald spot at the top covered by an old officer’s cap. Of all things, this old sailor kept a small sidearm to his side, tucked in a holster on his right leg. He had never used it, but his history and instinct encouraged him to keep it close regardless.
The younger sailor, Anaru, was near the front of the craft. He was decades younger than his father with bright blue eyes and long black hair matched with a patchy beard that had just begun to grow in. Wearing a uniform-like jumpsuit under a pair of overalls. A small metal rod with a hook on the end was his tool as the teenager picked through the nets on either side of the ship. Their work today bore no fruit. The water was too cold even for Rinold standards to be lively with fish. A look of disappointment took over Anaru’s face as he used the hook to draw in the net over starboard, hanging it off the side of the boat. While dangling over, his chest suspended above the frosted water, that’s when he saw something out on the ice. One of the many small islands that floated on the sea, caught his eye. It was a man. Or at least it looked like one. He was dressed head to toe in military gear with a stark-yellow pilot’s helmet over his face. A large backpack type device affixed to his body. The man was still and from where he was Anaru could not tell if he was even alive or dead.
“Dad! Over here!” Anaru called from across the ship. His voice struck like an alarm, hurrying Hugh to come and check on his son. The teen looked out at the man with a sense of wonder, curiosity.
The sailor came over to the nets, coming up behind Anaru and looking him over while placing a hand on his shoulder, “What is it?” he asked before noticing the boy’s eyes stuck on the figure in the water. Hugh finally sees it as well. Something wasn’t right. The color, he wasn’t one of the soldiers that belonged to their town. “He’s already gone. We should be heading back by now anyways.” Instinct in his gut wanted to leave, ignore the problem. Hugh never was one for sticking his neck where it didn’t belong. A dead soldier on the ice? It was too much of an anomaly to be worthy of their effort.
Anaru was confused before protesting, “We can’t just leave him out here,” the boy moved over to a launcher device to the edge of the boat’s side. It consisted of a hook on a line that could shoot out, in order to help pull the craft out of the way of ice on the water. He aimed the device before firing it--the trajectory knocked off course by Hugh, who shoved the barrel of the device down, firing the hook into the water below them. “What are you doing?!” Anaru yelled out, confused why his dad would condemn the stranger to death.
“We’re leaving him,” Hugh ordered, a worry in his voice but no explanation given. “He’s dead anyways, no point in dragging a corpse all the way home.”
As if to prove the father wrong, the body began to cough. Launching water from his lungs as the soldier turned over on his side, the face of him turning to the ship. He stayed laid out on the ice but a small movement in his eyes indicated he was alive and he had seen them on the boat.
“He’s not dead, we should do something.”
Hugh looked out at the ice. Something about the soldier was off to him. He thought it could be an enemy, someone who was a part of a larger ordeal. A decade ago he retired from seventeen years with the Radiant Systems Union, or RSU. A collective of worlds on the outer-edges of the galaxy that defied a greater organization. The remnants of an Earthen humanity. The Galactic Origin of Sol, or Goss. During his time in service, Hugh had heard rumors of a new type of weapon. Not a gun or a ship or a bomb. But a person. Augmented super-soldiers that were raised with nothing but the urge to kill. Some thought they were nothing more than tall tales. Some believed they were stories woven by the Goss to spread fear amongst their enemy. Hugh didn’t want to take a chance on rumors. The man’s colors, his gear-- it all looked too advanced. He wasn’t RSU, but he could not say if he was a part of the Goss either. Whichever version was true, he could not bring himself to tell Anaru about these rumors. “Bring him aboard. But we’re going to tie him down.” He conceded. Maybe the man could be a useful prisoner, or what Hugh had rathered to hope-- he wasn’t actually with the Goss.
“Tie him down? But he needs medical attention,” Anaru was understandably confused, unaware of the possible identity of the man.
“He can get all the attention he needs back at Harvey. The guard will want to speak with him.” Hugh mentioned the RSU’s local depot by name. Familiar with the local resistance force from his old days of service.
“The guard? Is he an enemy soldier?”
Hugh watched as Anaru aligned the device once more and drew the ice block close to their ship, “No one is going to randomly show up on a block of ice in the middle of nowhere on Rinold. Whatever he’s out here for, they’ll want to know,” he sounded now like an officer, a commander. Rather than the parental tone he took with Anaru just a few seconds ago.
Bringing the stranger onto the deck was not a complicated process. As the ice was drawn close they hoisted him over the side. The soldier was covered in complex gear, certainly meant for combat in it’s design. A gauntlet on the man’s right arm was affixed with several tools. From a large sword-like blade, to a launching wire to even a large flashlight. The backpack attached to his main harness was ruined. It was a type of flight device, hence the pilot’s helmet. They ripped it off, hiding the backpack away in the cabin of the ship. A small gun was also confiscated from this soldier. He was dressed lightly, not meant for the cold. A small short-sleeve uniform covered by armored plates and a heavier bottom half. Made of steel so thick Hugh imagined it was strong enough to take fire from anti-material rifles. The clues he found did not bode well for his ideas of a supposed super-soldier. The man’s arms were covered in small and branching violet scars that stretched the entire length of his limbs. They came all the way up the right side of his neck up to the cheek. They attempted to get a look at his face, but could not see it under the helmet and a respirator he wore. No insignias on the suit denoted where it had come from, other than a strange symbol on the chest where the breastplates met, it looked like two “Y”s stacked atop one another. Hugh could not confirm it as being from the Galactic Origin, but was not so convinced to rule it out either.
The two tied up the man’s arms and legs before leaving him by the anchor on the back of the vessel. Hugh looked at his son and handed him the small sidearm, the teen obviously familiar with a firearm in the way he handled it. “I’m going below deck to grab something. If he threatens you or tries anything sketchy, shoot him,” the orders were cold. Anaru had used a gun to shoot animals and targets before, but never a person, “Do you understand that?” Hugh asked to affirm his son’s confidence.
Anaru shook at the hands a bit as he clasped around the firearm with both hands, “I can do that, sir,” he was lying to himself, hoping that if something happened instinct would take over and he could actually pull it off.
Hugh nodded in confirmation before heading down. In the belly of the ship he first collected an old service weapon he had kept. A double-barreled shotgun that was magnetically propelled. Compared to the gunpowder-based weapons of the past, this firearm would blast a hole in the strongest sheets of steel. A thing designed for raw power, rather than surgical precision. In the living quarters Hugh kept a small transponder that could reach as far as Dale-- the town they lived in. From there he was hoping they could reach the military base known as Harvey Depot and meet soldiers by the time they reach the shore to collect this heavily-armored stranger. Pressing on a few dials he tried to hail the town.
“Romeo. Sierra. Uniform. Seven-Seven. Roger do you copy?” he called out, waiting impatiently for a response. The smallest bead of sweat forming on his forehead, regardless of the frigid weather. He waited a minute at the most before the call was returned.
“We heard you Lavender. What’s going on, are you stranded again?” A voice asked back, the responder was another old man with a heavy drawl to his words.
“No. We have a passenger. Unknown. We are going to need Captain Keeler’s assistance at the shore.”
“Who’s your passenger?”
“An Aviator.” Hugh was not even sure of the man’s title himself. But he could take no chances. If there was the slightest hint that this wounded soldier was one of the Goss’ supermen, one of their Aviators as they were known, they could not take any chances with the handling of this situation.
“Are you serious?”
“Deadly.”
The caller on the other side could be heard rummaging through something before gathering himself enough to answer, “A ship’s been hailed. They’re going towards the coast now. Be careful Hugh.”
“We will be, Seven-Seven out.”
“Roger than Seven-Seven. Seven-Six out.” The voice signed off before the transponder also shut down.
Hugh gathered his shotgun and made sure everything down below deck was in order. The backpack and gun they had taken off the soldier was left to the side by the communicator. A thump landed on the ceiling above him and the sailor rushed to get back above deck. A hundred worries shot through his mind. “Did Anaru shoot the soldier? Did the soldier break free? Was his son okay?” All the worst scenarios crossed his mind in an instant as the old man crawled up through the ship and burst out from the cabin to the deck, aiming his shotgun forward as he came face to face with the worst scenario he could imagine.
Across from Hugh on the deck stood the soldier, unbound and holding the son with his arm around the boy’s neck. The pistol planted firmly in the teen’s abdomen as this mysterious survivor stared at Hugh. Stark blue eyes with the glint of a red pupil inside of them, inhuman, robotic eyes. A darkness surrounded the skin of his eyes, contrast to the pale white skin of this soldier. The yellow visor covering the top of his head and the rebreather covering his mouth. Leaving nothing but the glaring eyes exposed. The soldier stood stiff and straight but did not speak as they looked upon one another with an intense silence forming between the two.
Hugh broke first, an honest cry in his voice as he begged, pleading, “What do you want? We did nothing to you.” The words were met with the blanket of silence. Cold winds from the sea being his only reply. “We have medicine. We can help you,” the father tried to beg as he lowered his weapon, trying to present himself as not a threat to this soldier. Before he could place it on the ground--BANG-- a single shot rang out.
“No!” Anaru cried as tears immediately formed in his eyes, the boy trying to fight back against the soldier but could not move him no matter how hard he tried.
Hugh became cold as a million images flashed through his mind. He was shot in the gut. Maybe the stomach. He couldn’t tell. All he knew was that it hurt like hell. The old man flew backwards with the bullet, landing on his back as a red pool began to form underneath him. Luckily the shot had made a clean exit, rather than rupturing the entirety of his insides.
“Who is the driver?” Stagnant, solid words came from the soldier. He spoke without cadence, without purpose. As robotic as his eyes and his stance. Looking over he watched as Hugh tried to raise his hand. The soldier pushed Anaru forward to the ground, aiming the weapon at him, “Give him medical attention. He will get us out of here,” the soldier ordered.
Anaru crawled on his hands and knees over to his father, pressing down on the wound as he could feel blood pumping out fast. The uncanny warmth staining his hands, “What do we do?” he asked his father through tears that started to drip faster now.
“Med-kit. Below the wheel it’s there. It has stimulants. Get them, please,” Hugh’s voice was weak and quiet but still firm. Fortunately it was not the first time he’d been shot. The sailor knew how to handle himself, even knowing that the wound was likely fatal.
Anaru ran for the cabin, tripping at first over the shotgun. He looked back at it. Something told him to grab it. But the soldier standing over his father, watching like a hawk-- was a strong enough deterrent for him to ignore it and continue to the cabin. Finding the kit he came back to Hugh, pulling a small metallic vial from the pouch.
“How many stims do you have there?” The soldier asked. Looking down over Anaru’s shoulder as he got things ready to help his father.
“Just, just the one,” Anaru’s voice was shaken as he fought a terrible stutter in his words.
The soldier lowered his hand to Anaru with his palm outstretched. He was asking for the stim, a device that was infused with a specific, very expensive bio-technology designed to heal internal wounds without the need for surgery.
“But you asked me to help him,” Anaru asked. There was a concern like he didn’t even want to risk questioning this man, but he was confused by the request too. “Why would you shoot my dad before asking who the driver was?” He thought, mildly infuriated, wondering if this was just a scare tactic.
Looking into the bag the soldier pointed out other tools for first-aid, “Use the stitcher. I require the stim.”
Reluctantly, Anaru handed the stim to the soldier. His red-stained hands struggled to fish through the pouch for the rest of the kit. First he grabbed a small cloth pod. It was shaped like a pill but sized up like a bullet. He pressed a small button on the side of it which began to glow green. He looked at his father, knowing that this process would hurt him; but declining would assure Hugh’s death all the same. He pressed the pod into Hugh’s wound, the man yelling as it was inserted into the hole. As the cloth came into contact with more and more blood, it began to expand. Putting pressure on it from the inside while also soaking up blood. Taking two more small patches, Anaru placed one over each side of the wound at the entry. As they made contact with the skin, the patches fused with a small burning smell. Welding themselves into Hugh’s outer layer, to seal in the fabric from before. It would not be enough to heal him but it would hold him over until they came to a proper doctor.
“Take us to the Arctic Flats,” the soldier requested. He was asking to go in the opposite direction of Dale’s shore, towards the upper North Pole of the planet.
Anaru pleaded once more, “He cannot make the journey, we need to go home and find a doctor, then we can take you where you want to go--” BANG-- the soldier had shot Anaru in the shoulder. The shot throwing him backwards onto the deck. The two laying side by side. Anaru screamed in agony, never feeling something so painful before.
“You will take us to the Arctic Flats,” the soldier said to Hugh. He stood over the both of them, gun drawn on Anaru, “Understood?” The soldier knelt down, ripping Hugh’s own firearm from it’s holster. Throwing the gun across the deck.
Slowly getting up as he fought the pain in his side Hugh nodded as fast as he could, “Yes. Yes. We will take you. Just please, stop.” Hugh began to swell but was stopped by the sound of the gun cocking. The threat was well understood as he shushed entirely, grabbing a small patch and applying it to Anaru’s wound. Like before, it welded into the boy’s skin. He tapped Anaru on the face a few times but the shock had left him unconscious. Still breathing, Hugh had propped him up beside the door to the cabin. Unable to do anything more for his son right now the sailor took his post in the cabin. The motor kicked on as the vessel began to turn around in the water, his heading for True North taking them deep into Rinold’s arctic circle.
The ship’s passengers stayed completely silent as they churned water on the path to this soldier’s destination. Hugh only hoped that they would make it out alive.
An hour had passed as the ship crossed into the true arctic. Birds circled their craft as they traveled deeper and deeper into the cold. Hugh was weak and tired. He struggled to keep his eyes open. The further they traveled the harsher it became. Glaciers grew in size, currents threatening to take control if Hugh had let the controls slip for a moment. He wanted to question this soldier, who he was sure was one of the Aviators now. The robotic eyes, the stoic voice. The fact that he stood still like a statue during the entire trip. The Aviator, standing at the door of the cabin with Anaru leaning against the wall next to him. The soldier held the gun steady at the teen’s body. The threat of murder hanging high in the air, keeping Hugh obedient. Alone he may have defied a lunatic like this to the end. But with his son on board he could do little but comply.
Stolen content warning: this tale belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences elsewhere.
Anaru slowly began to raise his eyes. Looking up at the soldier that kept a weapon trained on him. His shoulder was sore beyond belief. The wound many times less in it’s significance from Hugh’s but Anaru struggled to keep it under control. He thought that he must’ve been hit by a speeding train. Looking around the cabin felt like a tomb. This soldier had already shot both of them. To the side he could see the barrel of the shotgun sitting on the lip of the doorway. He had never fired it but knew how destructive it could be. All he needed was a distraction.
“Are we at Dale yet?” Anaru asked, unaware of how quiet his voice was going to be. No answer. “Are we at DALE yet?” he repeated, trying to say it louder the second time.
Hugh turned his head to recognize his son. A few seconds passed without interference from the Aviator so he assumed they were clear to speak, “We are not going to Dale son, remember? We’re taking him to the flats.” The sound of compliance heavy on his words.
The soldier took a few steps forward, his gun pulling away from Anaru as he came to look over Hugh’s shoulder. He studied the console and controls of the ship. He read the GPS system, trying to distinguish their location, burning the map into memory. “We are making poor pace,” the soldier said.
Hugh shrugged, “I cannot make it go faster. This is not a racer, it’s a humble fishing craft. Besides even if I could speed it up, hitting one of these icebergs at speed is a good way to become a wreck at the bottom of the ocean.”
The Aviator placed the handgun down on the right side of the console. It was purposefully tempting, as if he was challenging Hugh to take it. It was also a necessity as he held his own abdomen. A wound on the Aviator that seemed to be bad enough to warrant some pressure as he pulled up the stim and held it to his neck. The soldier pressed it in as the stim activated, allowing him to exhale as relief washed into his body.
Relief that was short-lived as Anaru struggled through his pain and lunged for the door. The teen made for the shotgun, desperately grabbing hold of it and lining up his shot with this Aviator. The soldier was caught off guard but his speed was still remarkably fast. Supernaturally fast. The two drew weapons and fired nearly simultaneously. The Aviator fired first, his shot landing against Anaru in the shoulder again, splitting the boy’s collar in a wedge-shape as the shoulder was torn from the torso. As such, when Anaru had pulled his own trigger his aim was thrown off. The shotgun tore right through the cabin, ripping the Aviator’s right arm off from the elbow down. It carried momentum further and cut through the middle of the console, shutting off the controls to the boat as it began to wildly speed in a single direction, Hugh losing control of their craft.
All happening in a split second the Aviator looked down at where his arm had used to be. Looking over to Hugh who looked just as surprised, trying to regain control of the boat with tears in his eyes. The smallest glimpse behind him being all that he needed to confirm that Anaru’s wound would be too bad for him to come back from. He wanted to lunge. To fight. To kill. But he waited.
The Aviator ignored Hugh on his mission as the soldier marched over to the teen. Seemingly uncaring for the loss of his limb. Continuing to stand straight as ever, the Aviator’s humorous descended from the stump that remained. A small metal skeleton coming down and flipping out like a switchblade to reveal an internal arm, robotic in nature with a sharp extremity on the end like a blade. An elongated rectangular frame no thicker than the bones one would expect to find in a human arm, pancaked all around by the torn flesh of what remained of the Aviator’s upper arm. With the sword-like appendage the soldier stood over Anaru, watching the few tendons that held the split body of the boy together after being violently torn by such a blast. The smallest whimper escaped him as a small bubble of red vile pushed up through the boy’s throat. A waterfall of plasma escaped his mouth before slowly coughing and finally drowning on it. Without a doubt, Anaru was right and totally dead. The Aviator grabbed the corpse by what remained of his collar using the one hand he still had, dragging it over and tossing the body overboard into the sea. Leaving the gushing cadaver in the arctic water for the fish to feast upon.
Turning around the Aviator looked at Hugh who now stood in the doorway. A puddle of viscera up to the brim of his boots as he stared at the murderer. Unconditional hatred boiled his blood. A decade of combat had never been as bad as what this single maniac had been able to pull off in a single evening. The sky above them had begun to darken as night set in. The clouds cleared away for bright, vibrant stars that begged to be an audience upon this catastrophe.
“We’re not moving. The two of us are going to freeze out here by the time the moons come over us. The ship is fried. Even if it wasn’t. I’m not going to let you get away with this.” Hugh’s words were strong and fierce. The hate he felt could not be expressed in a hundred words. Holding the shotgun up and aiming at this soldier, Hugh was confused himself why he hesitated so long to pull the trigger. Maybe because he only had one shot left and had to make it count. Maybe because the anger and disdain he felt for the Aviator needed to be expressed personally, his own emotions working against him.
There was a short silence like the robotic soldier could not instantly come to the answers he needed. Small drips of blood running down the Aviator’s false arm and landing on the deck of the ship, “You have already called for reinforcements. They will be here to rescue you.” He stated. Voice like a grueling compactor, grating on every raspy word from behind the respirator.
“They will have to settle for our bodies,” Hugh threatened as he rose the gun to his cheek and aimed for the soldier’s chest. Reacting instantly, the Aviator began to move to the side but failed to move quick enough. The shot fired out with a bright flash.
It did not hit the soldier at center mass but had traveled upwards. It blasted through the side of his helm. A bit that looked like an ear muffler. The blast ripped the helmet from the Aviator’s head as it cracked in half down the center, from one ear to the other. The Aviator crashed against the side of the boat’s deck, his remaining arm hanging over the side. Mostly unscathed all things considered, the shot had destroyed his helmet and blew shrapnel across the side of his face. His temple was scarred with small fragments of steel lightly embedded, his ear itself torn at the top. With the helmet removed his short black hair, curled in place and drenched in sweat was revealed from underneath. The soldier tried to get up but could not. Watching helplessly as Hugh came over to him, loading another two shells into the gun now that he had the chance to do so. Stepping beside the soldier, this enraged father shoved the barrel of the shotgun right against the Aviator’s exposed head; making sure to press it against the new shrapnel wounds so that it would hurt.
“I should pull this trigger,” Hugh barked through his teeth. It was no empty threat. There was nothing more in the world that Hugh had wanted but to blow away this thing, this monster disguised in human form. The man’s heavy, old finger was tight around the mechanism. The slightest nudge and the Aviator’s skull would be shark chum. “But there’s worse things than death,” he pulled the barrel away and pointed it down at the mechanical false-arm instead. Firing again, the metal frame was cut off from the internal half that had connected it to his body. The Aviator winced but did not speak. Hugh was not going to let him go so easily, bringing the butt of his gun down fast and knocking the soldier out cold.
Lavender looked out at the sea. He could not see Anaru. The boy’s body already swallowed by the dark waters. A set of tears began to run down his face. Moist drops that dragged across his leathery skin. It had been some time since the two had lost Anaru’s mother, Hugh’s wife while here on Rinold. To lose his son, especially so young, so tragically. He had raised Anaru to be kind and helpful. That same aid inviting in the devil that took his life. Hugh sniffed up his grief as that swiftly turned into rage and anger. Old training from his military days coming back as he returned to an old way of thinking.
He slowly packed away this monster in the lower deck of the ship. Trying to save the two of them from the blistering cold of the sea around them. The Aviator was wrapped up in metal chains heavy enough to keep down a bull. Sitting across from him on the only bed on the ship, Hugh sat with the shotgun in his lap. A small booklet in his hands, thumbing through pages devoid of words. Small pictures, printed of him, his late spouse and Anaru taking up the page instead. Slowly the old soldier began to weep. Quietly and to himself as if trying to save face, even with no one watching him. Putting away the book, he tucked it right underneath the pillow on the bed.
An hour passed. It was still cold and the ship’s onboard power whined and wheezed. Hugh knew that the generator was about to give out any minute now. He wrapped up in a thick blanket on the bed, leaving his arms and torso exposed so that he could fire on the Aviator if the moment called for it. But his wound hurt like hell. Even after the patch job, without a stim he was going to suffer the pain for a lot longer now. To add on all of that, it also zapped his energy. Hugh caught himself slipping now and again while he waited. His eyes slowly dropped before being shocked back awake. Knowing that if he fell asleep now he could very well never wake back up.
He could not shake the anger. A hatred filling up the void that the jarring grief held over him. Half a day ago Hugh had been fishing with his son on the ocean. They did the same thing nearly every single day. Not once have they ever had an issue. Now on today of all days he was gone. He was gone. Finally the thought truly set in for Hugh as the overwhelming loss gripped his heart. At first it was hard to breathe. Then his chest tightened. “I’m having a heart attack,” he thought. A few seconds passed paired with calm breathing were able to prove himself wrong. Hugh steadied himself. He’d fought with the RSU on distant worlds against armed forces greater than their own tenfold. Then this single soldier ruined his entire life in an instant. The whole reason they fought for independence and sought to live on the outskirts of the galaxy, away from the Goss was to be in peace. To go on their own and live for the sake of living. The Goss ruined that for him. For his family. It made no sense to him. That people hundreds of millions of miles away could set in motion something that affected him so personally. Him specifically. Hugh was not shocked by the statistics of casualties he’d been privy to during his tour of duty. But something about today managed to reframe his entire view on the people. The lives that once were just numbers on a screen to him.
He no longer fought for the Union. But it was still his war. The capture of this Aviator would be unlike anything that any of the independent systems had ever achieved. Paramount over any victory, any defense they may have staged in the past. These soldiers were known as boogeymen for their rarity. A tall-tale, a myth of the battlefield that even Hugh wouldn’t have believed until a few hours ago. In sixty-four years of life he had never seen a man so devoid of humanity. The Aviator’s robotic movements and internal mechanism was something he’d never witnessed before. It made him sick. That their enemy would be so callous as to ruin the human body in such a way, turning this soldier into a weapon of war in and of himself.
A second hour passed with no sign of a crew. The ship had shut off by now. Hugh hoped that the sheriffs back home had locked on to the vessel’s location, but hope is all that he had left. With the gun in hand the old man watched the Aviator with steady eyes. An energy boost afforded to him by the leftover adrenaline spiking in his system once more once the power went out. He had to be prepared for anything. At worst, maybe the Aviator had reinforcements of his own.
Slowly, the soldier began to open his eyes. The lenses of his eyes slowly powering up. Lifting his chin the Aviator attempted to get up. Barred by the chains that covered his body. He pressed against them but could not break free. He scanned the small room before landing on Hugh, who now aimed directly at the soldier. Death was a single trigger-pull away.
“What are you?” Hugh asked. He was pretty sure, but an open answer would solve a lot of the thoughts in his head. The Aviator simply snarled at his captor like a wild dog. Being known as a super-soldier it would make sense that he was conditioned to resist interrogation. “You’re not from here. Not from Rinold at least. You’re not from the Union, far too mean for that. So what are you?” He asked again.
The Avian kept his stare intense for a moment before closing his eyes. A concession to his captor, “You know what I am,” the growled voice answered, “Otherwise you wouldn’t be so scared.”
Hugh was scared, but most of that had gone away after Anaru was murdered. He kept firm, cocking the gun, “I do not fear you.” His thoughts lingered on the rescue party, yet to show.
“For yourself. You did not fear until your son was in danger. Now you fear for whoever has to come retrieve us,” the Aviator had read him well. Hugh’s fears of opening the sheriffs and the entirety of his hometown to this psycho rather than ending him here and now were more than palpable in the air as sweat began to form on his brow, drying up from the intense cold before it could escape him.
The boat itself began to creep with the cold of the world outside. Gently rocking side to side as waves brushed against the hull. Every once in a while it would collide with a small chunk of ice, filling Hugh with anxiety as he worried the perfect little glacier could sink his ship with the two in tow. The veteran looked across at the creature bound in chains, “How old are you? Do you even age?” the question was innocent. Not an interrogation of mission or combat strategy, but a simple request from one human to something that resembled another.
The Aviator looked off to the side, the wounds on the crest of his temple beginning to scab and heal over in the short time they’ve been down here. He stared blankly as if trying to remember the very same thing himself. “Fourteen decades and six years.” The format was strange but the question answered.
Hugh looked at the soldier with a question in his eyes. He would’ve guessed no older than forty. But over twice his own age? He thought it impossible, “There’s no way. Implants is one thing but you expect me to believe that you’re over a hundred years old? That’s just not how it works.” People lived to be a hundred if not more, of course, but never while retaining their younger form; it just wasn’t possible.
“We discovered the ability to cross hundreds of miles in the matter of seconds almost six-hundred years ago. Is the extension of life that hard to believe in?” the Avian expanded upon himself, “There’s a lot about this galaxy you would never be able to understand.”
“Is that what you call the invasive procedures done to you? This-- killer instinct? You flew out of the sky, were saved by my boy then you split him in half and tossed him overboard. There is nothing better about you-- other than your affinity for cruelty.” Hugh spat his words with a disorganized hatred. They flowed freely without tact or decorum, the pure hatred in his eyes as they boiled up to spill over, wetting his cheeks.
“I am alive,” the Aviator spoke softly in an affirmation to himself.
The statement broke something in Hugh’s own logic. A rage and fury spilling over as he wiped away tears from his face, grabbing the gun in two hands and standing abruptly. Holding the weapon up to the soldier’s face as he shouted, “AND MY SON IS DEAD!” the phrase escaped him, rebounding off the walls of the cabin, louder than it should’ve been, “You should be in his place.” The old man cocked his weapon. “Maybe your autopsy is just as valuable as an interrogation would be,” he wrestled with the idea of revenge. He wanted nothing more in his life than to pull the trigger right now. To splatter this soldier’s skull into a thousand bloody fragments all across the wall behind him. It would be gruesome and Hugh would revel in the satisfaction of it. But he couldn’t. Slowly the old man released his trigger to uncock the gun. “But an Aviator in custody is a uniquely glorious prize,” his voice softened as irrationality escaped the elderly man. The anger and hatred meddling down in his face as a strategic plan started to form, written out in the darting of his eyes around the room. Until they finally landed on the Avian’s backpack.
Getting up from the old creaky bed, Hugh’s feet dressed in heavy boots clunked along the metal flooring. They were taught in a way that only a compulsive soldier might do, the very nature of Hugh’s internal order. Walking over to the pack he knelt down to finally inspect it. Probing for an easy explanation he began with another question, “What’s this then? Just a flight-suit that keeps you in the air like birds? Or does it serve some ulterior purpose for your kind?”
The Aviator sat still. Leaning his head back with eyes closed. Whether it was fatigue or shame he loathed to spit up any answers to the question.
Looking over the kit Hugh picked at a narrow channel on the right side of the pack. A slot wide enough for a rifle to fit into. Scanning the vacancy Hugh saw no key to fit into the hole. Assuming the Aviator must’ve lost his gun some time before crashing on the ice. A few other modules offered little all the same. Three large thrusters dominated the bottom of the case, each pointing in a different direction for better mobility. Near the top of the equipment between two large circular energy cells was a slit-shaped button. After a single press from the tip of his finger, Hugh watched with curiosity streaming through his body as a small mechanical chip rose from the device. Snatching it the veteran inspected it closely. To his knowledge it looked like some sort of information-storing device. A hard drive. Holding the small chip which felt fragile in his hand, like the most gentle pressure could snap it in two. Hugh turned on his heel to look over at the Aviator. A slight sparkle of malice in his eyes.
“What is this huhū?” Hugh spoke with a raised brow, thinking he had stumbled upon a secret of the Aviators. He showed it off to the soldier like he was gloating, “The drive is ancient by tech standards. We had this sort of thing when I was a fresh blood in the army. Why is a man so advanced he thinks himself above humanity-- straddling around with a device so primitive by comparison?”
“It is encrypted. If you attempt to unlock it, my brothers will hone in on it’s location and kill everyone you’ve ever known on this planet.” The warning from the Aviator felt like a clear enough threat.
With that, Hugh had pocketed the small device in his jacket. Either way it was getting back to the RSU. He knew that the information would be invaluable to their cause, no matter how outdated it seemed. “Brother is a strange term for a machine, don’t ‘cha think?”
Pride filled the Aviator’s chest as he stood up straight, “We are more than machines. We rose up together and we fought for one another. We are brothers of the same blood.” A front that came as if the Aviator himself needed to justify his existence.
“Same blood? What does that mean? Are you literal brothers? Clones? Or do you got multiple voices rattling around in that head?” Hugh fired off the multitude of questions but never left room for the Aviator to answer, “No matter anyways,” a light gushing sound began to emanate from outside the craft. Another ship coming up on them, “Our ride is here,” the veteran ordered the Aviator on his feet, using the shotgun to push him towards the staircase.
Back above deck Hugh instantly clocked one of the RSUs patrol boats. A militarized ship much larger than the humble fishing vessel they’d made the journey on so far. They were greeted by three men in armored gear on the patrol ship. One who was wrapped up entirely, his mouth covered by a mask and a hat atop his head. Another who wore a helmet that entirely encased his head within. The third clearly their leader. Hugh recognized him immediately. Roger Tatasciore. The Sheriff of Dale, their home. He was older but not as elderly as Hugh. A man with long ginger hair and a thick beard. He wore armor like the others but covered mostly by a thicker poncho that hid his figure. But even with all the layers it was more than obvious that he approached with a hand on his hip--ready to grip a pistol that was stowed away.
The incoming party approached Hugh’s craft with caution. They heard about an Aviator and treated the situation with extreme grace. The veteran was more than happy to see someone else out here, but was confused on why Roger had come, “Where’s Keeler and the batch? I thought the Depot-boys would be coming to retrieve him?” Hugh asked, referring to the military installation. The Sheriffs worked closely with the Union, but were still a smaller, less militarized force overall.
Roger stood proud as he extended his other hand to reach across the small gap between both boats, “They’re coming but we were able to get here first. We were showing Lucas out on the waters when you called me,” he leaned to the side looking at the Aviator, still chained up, taking a notice to the raw stump on his arm. Hugh grabbed the Sheriff’s arm as Roger helped pull him across to safety, “This is him then? Where’s Anaru?”
The question gripped Hugh with an inconsolable sadness. He just darted a look at the Aviator, chained and helpless. “Let’s get back home. That thing can pay for his crimes with the blood of its brothers.” A fury came back to the elderly man’s face.
Tatasciore nodded with a saddened understanding. It was just tragic. Their home was populated by no more than a hundred families. To have one of their housholds lost to tragedy, it was going to be a sore spot of grief not just for Hugh, who brought peace to Dale to begin with, but for the entire town.
The other two sheriffs wrangled the Aviator and took him on their own boat before stuffing him in a hold below deck. While at the same time, Roger had brought Hugh up to the bridge. An excellent vessel it was. Dripping in electronics and panels that gave the crew complete control over the entire ship from just one room. A large singular wheel at the center of a console in the middle of the bridge flanked on either side by dozens of small switches, blinking lights and larger levers that controlled the ship. Roger took his post behind the wheel as he began to play with the controls. The ship began humming to life as a large engine and motor beneath them slowly woke up. Pattering through the water they began to glide. The force of the ship lifting itself gently above the icy sea itself. A pair of fins at the back and a single one up front kept the craft on course to steer it through. The whole vessel was a wonderful sight for Hugh. He had nearly forgotten what working on a more advanced ship had been like after so many years on the humble little fishing boat he’d gotten accustomed to.
His own ship was left behind on the sea. A burial ground it was now, the memories of the Lavender family using it for fishing would be forever tainted by the pang of Anaru’s loss.
Roger kept his eyes on the sea, keeping them full-force ahead back towards the mainland. The ship moved quickly with the bladed fins below cutting right through the ice on the water. Making it easy for them to keep pace without sacrificing for mobility. Looking back at Hugh who sat on a chair behind him, the Sheriff slowly let go of his breath, pushing off little chips of ice formed around his beard from the short time outside.
“The Aviator, how’d you come across him?” Roger was curious, but mostly thought little of the stories and tall-tales, “How’d you get him chained up?”
Hugh looked forward onto the foggy ocean, “Anaru found it. Out on the ice. A few moments after we brought that thing on board it took my boy hostage. It shot me, then him. It wanted us to bring it to the Arctic Flats. Anaru tried to fight back and the monster tore him in half,” the man struggled to recount the story. He’d been through a few warzones against enemies that would execute prisoners en masse. But this, the death of Anaru so specifically, brought him to tears as Hugh tried to recount it. “I took my chance as soon as I could. I blew it’s arm off, ripped a helmet from its head with a shotgun and got the thickest chains I could to tie it down.”
Roger slowly nodded along to the story, trying to sympathize with his friend, “Sounds like you got lucky,” he immediately recoiled, regretting his choice of words.
“If I was lucky, Anaru would be here and I’d be dead in that ocean right now. If I was lucky, I would’ve torn every inch of skin off that beast’s body rather than keeping it alive and bringing it back here.”
“Well you did the right thing,” Roger wanted to affirm him, “Once we wring that bastard out for everything he knows-- we’ll make sure the gun lands in your hand before he gets put down,” the two fell into a silence as the ship continued onward. Everything was going well so far. He prayed they would not devolve from here.
