INTERVIEW ROOM, INCARCERATION CENTRE, HILLTOP HEIGHTS, SOMARI PRIME
/ / SO1_p-cptl · Somari Prime / /
Omark shifted uneasily on the cold stone bench. Heavy metal restraints held his legs in place, slightly pulled beneath him. The buckles were fastened to a mount below and kept him slightly forward. With his hands bound behind his back, too much movement would result in faceplanting on the cement floor.
Omark had already tried, and now his nose was packed with gauze, resulting in a slow drip of iron-tasting blood back down the back of his throat.
The sheen of white lights, with a slight orange-red tinge, had begun to warm him. The rumpled clothes he’d been apprehended in were moist with a slow, sweaty weight.
“You are violating my diplomatic rights!” He tried again, yelling at the cold stone wall. “Listen to me!” He screamed, careful not to break his balance and tumble forward.
Omark was well aware that this prison used to process prisoners that arrived on Somari Prime. Even more ironic, Omark had once had a cousin sent here – she might even be one of the people watching him now.
He knew incarceration was a possibility when he violated his parole; in fact, he’d resigned himself to it when he first learned the rebel destroyers had virtually no ammunition or crews. Once he dispatched the information onto the OmniWeb, he surrendered quickly when the security forces cornered him.
But that wouldn’t keep him from screaming his –
The door at the far end opened, dimming the bright lights. An almost skeletal creature entered. It skittered on three appendages, which came together in the trunk of its body. A grotesque double jaw split open horizontally as it began to speak. “Omark Ritoffer, envoy of the Commonwealth, successors to the oppressors.” The creature's reddish-brown carapace clicked as he closed the distance to Omark.
“Rebel scum,” Omark replied, hiking up his lip into the best sneer he could form with his broken nose.
The creature ignored the barb and continued, “Our judicial council has reviewed your case, and you’ve been found guilty of espionage, violation of parole, and trespassing.” The angular, tri-split mouth was as disturbing as it was mesmerising. It was also speaking in song, out of sync with the language Omark was hearing. “Do you have any statements to add to your endorsement of this finding?”
“What hideous mother birthed a monstrosity like you?”
The creature paused, a single compound eye protruding from the top of its head seemed to shift, studying Omark. After a full minute, Omark shifted uncomfortably; the clacking of the horizontal jaw sent a shiver down his spine.
“At least give me your name, I should know the name of my accuser, right?”
“Your accuser is President-Elect Eva Talismite, the honorable leader of the Two Worlds Republic.” The creature sang back, Omark could almost sense sarcasm in the response, despite the now clearly robotic translation.
Omark couldn’t help himself; his laugh filled the small chamber and reduced him to a coughing fit. Holding his breath, he regained his composure. “A republic should protect my rights to a fair trial, yes?”
The creature continued to watch, the chill unnerving Omark, wrapped from his spine, grabbing at his lungs. Was this thing reaching into his mind like a Declanian could, or was it just fear gripping his heart?
“Do you know what bricking is?” The creature asked.
Omark’s heart sank. He knew. He’d even threatened the rebel president with bricking when she first denied his envoys. “You know I know,” he spat back, realizing they probably picked this punishment for him special.
Bricking was a simple procedure; you hook a criminal into a life support unit, put them in a carbon fiber box, then encase the box in ceramacrete. Drop the whole thing to the bottom of the ocean, and the prisoner either dies when the life support unit runs out, they destroy the unit, or they go insane.
It was a slow and painful way to die.
“Do you have any statements to add to your endorsement of this finding?” The creature asked again.
“I had not intended to die for the Commonwealth.”
COMMONWEALTH CRUISER ‘Snow’ LOWER DECKS
/ / SO8.iv_o-sply · Somari Eight / /
Gɪliɛt, known as Gunner by the crew, shifted in the tight workspace she’d crafted rearward of the heavy gravitational shielding that protected the invisible protrusions of the subdeck projector rings. She was using the bend in the gravitic flow to create a zero-gravity bubble where she could blend more Compound W, the highly reactive explosive.
So far, she’d placed twenty-eight tubes, all tied into the communication network. When she spoke the proper phrase, the packs would independently explode.
She’d needed time and materials to get this far, so she opted for a slow and steady approach. Her last two tubes were meant for Fisker himself; one in his chambers, one in his ready cabin.
Gɪliɛt wasn’t precisely sure if she could gauge when he’d be in either spot, but she didn’t have any better plan. She had considered setting the wardroom to explode – they were feasting on that poor captured Cartolingus tonight, but she had realized too late to set a trap.
Grabbing the final two tubes of Compound W from their floating containment field, she slipped them into her jacket.
It was already a tight fit, but trying to exit the workspace while not crushing two tubes of Compound W hanging from your body was always a tricky proposition.
Exiting into the corridor, Gɪliɛt stopped as a service technician approached her access point. “What are you doing in there, Carty?” He asked, his suspicion starting to rise.
“I needed a place to think,” she replied without her voice box.
“Speak my language,” He snarled back, while trying to grab her translation box and missing. “Get on your knees!”
Gɪliɛt recoiled at the sudden vitriol in his voice. She’d always suffered segregation, but the recent behavior of the crew echoed a deeper hate. He grabbed at her again, grasping a hold of her wrist and twisting.
Gɪliɛt served with the Marines, and she couldn’t say for certain, but her movements felt fluid – almost second nature. Plunging the heel of her free hand into the service tech’s nose, she felt the long, hard bone of the Eukary’s nose drive back away from her hand.
The man dropped to the deck like a bag of wet ceramacrete, right as a pair of ordnance sergeants entered the corridor. She recognized one as a drop ship loader, who pointed at Gɪliɛt and screamed, “Hold your position, Gunner!”
She would be searched, and the Compound W hanging around her neck would be found. Gɪliɛt roared, putting every ounce into her vocal cords, screaming at the top of her lungs.
Turning to run, Gɪliɛt charged away from them towards the access ladders. She’d get to Fisker if it was the last thing she did.
COMMONWEALTH CRUISER ‘Snow’ WARD ROOM
/ / SO8.iv_o-sply · Somari Eight / /
The Cartolangious steak lay before him like a promise; thick, crimson, and glistening with delicate marbling that shimmered under the light like silk stretched over muscle. Fisker’s breath caught as he lifted the knife, the anticipation pooling low in his belly, hunger curling into something deeper, almost intimate.
The soft meat broke before his utensil, cooked to perfection. “My compliments to Mister Guldrich,” Volm said as he shoveled another bite of meat into his mouth. “We of course couldn’t find Bog Water, but Crüniac will do,” he said, lifting his glass.
As the officers lifted their cups, Prime Lieutenant Obo cleared his throat lightly, “What is Bog Water, sir?”
All of the officers knew, when invited to Fisker’s table, if someone didn’t ask for his explanation on something, the meal would end in a tirade against ungratefulness and the egotistical younger class. Fisker flashed a smile, setting down his utensil with a large flaky piece of meat. “Bog Water?”
Prime Lieutenant Obo let out a subtle breath he’d been holding; he wasn’t sure if he’d interrupted or found the proper item Fisker wanted to pontificate about.
“Bog Water isn’t about the kick of the alcohol, it’s the taste. And, perhaps, the texture that truly defines it —”
The harsh klaxon interrupted Fisker, with monitors and deck lighting turning red. “Condition One, Captain to the bridge,” the announcement came loud and clear.
Fisker pursed his lips in anger. Shadow wasn’t here, obviously. So he should be at his duty station. Fisker could also feel the wry anger in his gut at not being called before the lowly captain. “Sub-Commander Deltoib, find out what’s going on.” Fisker barked at the lowest-ranking officer at the table.
“Aye, sir,” Deltoib replied as he leapt to his feet and rushed for the exit hatch.. As the door opened, a spray of blood shot out of the officer's back as several over-shot rounds ricocheted off the door and one of the chairs in the wardroom.
“Get down, Admiral,” Obo shouted as he stood to face the sudden intrusion.
Gɪliɛt charged into view, screaming and firing a hand weapon towards the door. One of the two marine sentries already lay dead at the door frame. A solid metal flechette round struck Gɪliɛt in the head, blowing apart her eye as she fired back into the remaining sentry.
She could see past the officers shouting at the feast they were sharing. Holding up the all-call emergency communicator, she held it to her lips as two more flechettes punched into her chest.
“Greɪt Tiːθ ɡaɪd ʌs tu ðaɪ ˈmeɪkə…” she said into the communicator as another round punched through the back of her head. The eruption of bone and brain matter from the flechette was blown away by the Compound W hanging on her body.
The fiery white-red blast erupted ten meters ahead, and Obo slapped at the door controls, ordering a crash-close.
Reaching the wardroom, the concussive blast poured through the opening. With the force of a sub-atomic weapon, Obo was vaporized instantly, followed by the remaining six command staff who had not retreated into the Steward's cabinet.
Fisker gave a quick laugh; he couldn’t believe his fortune. He and the four other officers sitting closest to him had retreated as soon as Obo had called out.
The door to the cabinet had absorbed the blast, distorting in the heat and pressure. The resounding thumping and secondary alarms told a tale of a coordinated attack on the ship. Multiple explosions were tearing at her.
“They’re trying to kill me,” Fisker said finally to the officers around him, all trying to catch their breath and understand what was happening. “They killed Obo,” Fisker managed after a moment, as his mind finally began to clear.
“And Commandant Esker,” Sub-commandant, and Esker’s assistant, replied, taking stock of their situation.
Fisker looked around again, realizing someone was missing. “NO!” He cursed, slamming his fist down. “Guldrich was out there, too.”
“The steward?” Lieutenant Hent, a fellow Belliundrian from Fisker’s homeworld, Mavis, sneered.
Fisker balled his fist, striking Hent across the jaw. “Best dag steward in the fleet, Hent.” He barked as the officer collapsed to the floor. “Have some respect.”
Moving over towards the deformed door, Fisker pushed on it carefully. “At least if there’s a mutiny, they can’t immediately get to us here.”
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Header concept art of Commodore Volm created by Robert R. Fike