Paul Hughes - An End

It was a beautiful hand.

A small freckle on the surface above the beginning of the index finger was the only deviation from creamy white skin, stippled ever-so-gently by hairs the color of nothing and sunrise and days she spent in happier times with people now long-dead or long-something-Else. She studied her hand with an intensity that she had not been able to summon for years in the moments before it left her forever, in those burning moments before her perfect white creamy freckled left useless left hand was severed from the rest of her trapped form in a flash of white and fire and pain.

“Fleur. You shouldn’t have tried that.”

The klaxon was wailing incessantly and piercingly from somewhere above her head, now pressed against the cool relief of the metal floor, but she could still recognize that voice, and the presence that accompanied it.

“Make that awful noise stop.”

She did not look up, but instead found some solace in the metal of the floor as her body began shaking, and as uncontrollable sobs emanated from places within that she had not wanted to acknowledge for years. Her slow tears mixed with the spreading bloodpuddle as she pulled her non-existent left hand back away from the shattered, useless control panel that would have effectively ended not only her own life, but the lives of these men who would be taking her home. If she had only been successful… If she had only been able to press that button in time… Things would be different. Better. There would have been certainty in death, but now…

“Stop her bleeding. We can’t take her in like that.”

She held her eyes closed and sobbed into the coagulating blood on the floor. She felt strange hands begin to lift the crimped and twisted metal of the collapsed bulkhead from her back. If the vessel hadn’t been torn apart in the boarding, she might have been able to activate the destruct sequence. If they hadn’t—

“It’s no use, dear. Don’t tear yourself apart about it. You knew we would be coming to get you eventually. You knew that Mother would not be pleased.”

A blissful moment of relief from crushing pressure as the final weight was released from her back. Might be a few cracked ribs. Perhaps a crushed pelvis. But altogether, the item was intact. The hand was an acceptable loss.

“You’ll be fine, dear.” Gentle hands lifted her to her feet, and to the surprise of all three residents of the chamber, she stood on her own, eyes blinking away her own blood, stump of a left arm held closely to her chest. Her breathing was fast-paced and labored, but still she stood defiantly. Silently.

The man who was Whistler lifted her chin up, looked squarely into her eyes. He brushed her hair out of her face and wiped a bit of blood from under her left eye.

“Minimal damage. Mother will be pleased. Let’s go.”

She recognized Whistler, but did not know the other man. Both agents of Mother were draped in the traditional long black garment that Fleur knew would conceal a multitude of weapons, each with a varying degree of effectiveness or pain-inducement. The man she did not know was at the present replacing the long, black weapon with which he had severed her hand with an energy burst back into one of the raven folds of his cloak. He eyed her coldly, as if she were the cause of his displeasure with life.

“Ah yes. Fleur, you have not met Nine. Nine, Fleur. Fleur, Nine. You’ll have plenty of time on the trip home to get to know each other.”

“The trip home?” It was the first thing she had said since the arrival of the agents.

Whistler smiled slyly. “But of course, dear girl. Mother wants to see you again.”

She began to sob once again as Nine pushed her forward, out of the chamber. Whistler walked over to the destruct panel and gingerly stroked the smooth black surface, wiping up a fair amount of Fleur’s blood. With Nine and the girl now safely out of the room, he quickly stuck the tip of his finger in his mouth, licking off and savoring the precious blood of the human girl. Mother would be pleased indeed.

Whistler’s vessel hung like a tumor from the underbelly of the ruined prison galleon. Already, Fleur’s former home was falling apart in great segments as bulkheads burst with the same squealing porcine terror that had impaled her on the bridge just after they had been boarded. With a shudder and a quick burst from the phase rudder, the agents’ vessel detached from the fiery wreck. Fleur watched silently from a porthole as her home of the last seven months drifted into the void.

“You don’t say much, do you?”

She turned to meet Nine’s gaze blankly. “What model is he?”

Whistler sat down in a swirl of black robe in the thrust chair facing Fluer. “How did you know?”

“I always know. What model?”

“Nine is a nine.”

She scoffed. “Figures… And you? How long until they deem your techbase obsolete, Whistler darling?”

The manufactured grin faltered for an instant, but then returned in force. “Dear girl, I will never be obsolete. I am one-of-a-kind.”

Fleur smiled her one-cornered smile and flexed her beautiful new hand, still held in place by a metal brace. It worked, but it would never be hers. There was no freckle to denote her identity. She wondered whose pattern had been sacrificed to give her a new prosthesis.

“Why?”

Whistler stopped twirling the shock of pure white hair that grew from his hairline for a moment and looked toward the porthole. “You should know by now, little flower.”

“What happened? Did Mother…”

“She did, and you will, and we won’t, and it does.”

“How many galleons are left?”

Nine’s eyes lit up. Whistler grinned.

“How many?”

“None.” Nine turned to her, his voice a basso growl. “Yours was the last.”

Tears threatened to erupt from her bloodshot eyes, but Fleur maintained her composure, at least enough to squeak out an almost-inaudible “Zero?”

“What, dear?”

“Zero? What about Zero?”

Again, Whistler’s grin dropped from his face for an instant. “We don’t know. We’ve not heard from him in quite some time. Machine could have been lost eons ago, and we wouldn’t know for decades.”

“I would know.”

“Of course, dear.” Whistler rummaged through the folds of his robe, his hand finally emerging with a silver flask. He unscrewed the top and took a long drag from the amber liquid within. He held it out to Nine, who silently shook his head, and then to Fleur.

“No thanks. I don’t drink.”

“Suit yourself, missy. It’s going to be a long ride home.”

Fleur turned to the porthole, looked out into black and nothing.

Home. A long ride home.

It was a dream, she hoped. A dream… Such peace in that thought. Such quiet. It was a dream, not a memory. It had never happened. She had never lived that. She could never have lived that.

Great silver teardrops falling from the sky, bursting open in the city center with flickering laser fury, spewing forth hundreds thousands tens-of-thousands of Mother’s perfect society’s rejects, each armed heavily with light and projectile weaponry, heavily armored with fields and shields and wielding their blessed black blunderbusses before them as they carved apart the unsuspecting inner sanctums of the worlds upon which they were unleashed… In the eon of civil war, Mother’s rejects were also her closest allies, her most precious resource on the planets that they were sent to pacify. Humanity was a failed experiment. Humanity was a brat of an offspring. Mother’s rejects were often sent to the colonies to correct mistakes that she never could have foreseen, or if she had, she simply sat in the earth and watched as thousands of her most hated and treasured children laid waste to those worlds who would not bend to her will.