J Mauldin - Final Solution

My attacker grunted, pulled me up and kneed me in the stomach. Breath hissed out like a cycling airlock. I fell back but somehow recovered my footing. There was no way to know where he or she was, no way to know how big they were, or if they’d brought something more dangerous than a pair of fists.

My heart thundered as I caught a metallic whiff of blood, reminding me of the hours following Harrison’s skimmer crash. I’d paid dearly for that incident, just like this. A revenge beating.

I sucked in a breath and kicked blindly into the inky black, rewarded with the crunch of something firm and meaty. It was my only victory. My attacker rushed forward and hit me in the face with something metal, maybe a dinner tray. I tumbled back onto the floor, my weight and the momentum of a crushing blow focusing to a single point on my shoulder.

In spite of the desperate torrent of adrenaline coursing freely through every inch of me, I wanted to howl in agony and frustration. It’s impossible to fight an enemy you can’t even see.

The ship began to whine and whinny, growling and burping and whirring as the systems rebooted, coming back to life. Two swift kicks cracked me in the ribs, forcing a spray of blood between my lips.

“That’ll teach you to mess around,” the attacker whispered, their voice electronically distorted. Footsteps receded off down the hall, vanishing before the lights had returned.

Blood was splattered across the base of the bunks and down my chest. My nose spewed red like a decorative fountain in a macabre garden. I crawled into the hallway and peered both ways to catch a glimpse of my assailant, swearing I saw the blurry image of Dour Face through the haze.

Wishful thinking.

Liberty rounded the corner a moment later and gasped. She rushed over to help me stand. “Your earpiece turned on. I heard the whole thing. David, who did this? Who?”

I asked myself the same question, and every part of my body throbbed in concert, playing for me the terrible, wordless symphony that follows a brutal ass beating.

“I don’t know,” I managed. “I don’t know.”

Text LOG #45 with Captain (Goddard’s watch).

09:00

Goddard: I wish the Doc had something stronger for me. Can you help, sir?

Captain: Get over it, pussy. What’s our status?

Goddard: The target, or the ship?

Captain: You know what I mean.

Goddard: The target has to be involved. Enela is dead.

Captain: The target does not control meteorites.

Goddard: But the drugs, sir.

Captain: Enela was smart. He could have stolen them. Enough talk of that. The target was not involved.

Goddard: How do you know?

Captain: Who is the captain of this ship?

Goddard: Yes, sir.

Captain: Now, report.

The Captain assured me a thorough investigation was underway. In the meantime, he recommended that I take things easy, getting as much R&R as possible between critical duties to let myself heal. But the truth was, there wasn’t much to investigate, and my injuries, those hurt no matter what I was doing.

The ship’s power reset meant no cameras were in operation, and I’d done no more than caught a handful of the attacker’s jumpsuit, heard their synthesized voice. Not much evidence to go on, just supposition. I knew what the Captain was thinking. I was thinking the same thing. The target had done this, not some pissed off crewmember. I’d been caught meddling and paid at a convenient time.

Then again… Could it be as simple as revenge? Had someone merely taken issue to the way I’d treated Griffin? A little extreme, don’t you think? All I did was push her down. Though, a taste of vigilante justice was not outside the realm of possible.

Whenever I came across Dour Face I felt sick. There was no way a proper investigation could be conducted when the prime suspect, in my opinion, was part of those investigating. That left me on my own. The only person I could trust was Liberty, but she couldn’t be told of our threat, not yet, and I hated that. Thankfully, she’d forgiven me my outburst in the cargo bay. Those were extreme circumstances and Griffin wasn’t hurt—well, not physically. My only other friend aboard this dented space can had been killed before my eyes, and I hadn’t taken it well. But if Griffin hadn’t given César the junk, then who had? I’d bet a hundred credits it was that same asshole who tenderized my face, revenge or not, spy or not. Either way, I needed to apologize to her.

It took nearly a week before my body stopped aching. I had two blue-black eyes, a forehead split wide open and stitched back together with clear thread, a right hand whose fingers hardly moved due to how hard I’d punched, lingering concussion symptoms, and a stuffy nose. Funny thing was, it wasn’t the worst off I’d ever been. It had been far worse when Harrison’s “good friends” had come for a visit.

My right hand trembled at the thought, teeth gnawed at my lips.

No, it’s best to forget. Ignore the scales, good or evil. Don’t look at them.

Gossip around the ship was rampant. Whenever the scrubs gathered to watch the latest Demonio Primario they’d disperse if I ever even thought of appearing. I’d fixed the ship and saved their lives, but they were afraid of me, afraid I’d fly off the handle again. They were rightfully oblivious to the hidden threat on board, but seemed to believe that after going off the deep end someone had indeed taken revenge and kicked my ever loving ass. They wanted no part of that. All I heard in passing as I moved about were harsh whispers and wards against the Malocchio. I became progressively isolated, tumbling deeper and deeper into the wells of paranoia. It was only a matter of time before the attacker would come to finish the job. The target had me just where they wanted me; afraid, alone, and confused. That asshole was going to kill me if I didn’t find out who they were, and quickly.

I made way towards Med 1, hoping to pop by and get a few pills to ease the pain, but as I passed the arboretum a hand shot out and took hold of my right arm. I twisted my body and nearly laid its owner flat.

“Hey, hey!” Devins said, tipping his head back and not letting go of my arm. My bicep flexed against the strain of his grip, every fibrous cord vibrating.

“What do you want?” I tried again to pull away, my feet shouting for me to run, but he had me. I didn’t like being touched, let alone man handled. I didn’t like being this close to anyone. I could smell the dried onions on his breath, see exhaustion in his bloodshot eyes.

“Nothing, just trying to make sure you’re safe.” His fingers tightened as he leaned in, further invading my personal space to peer over my shoulder and see if anyone else was around. “Just been worried about you, that’s all. Ever since the Griffin thing, ya know? And now? Damn man, your face looks like hamburger meat. Goddard, this is bad.”

I twisted my shoulders and jerked hard. This time he let go.

“I’m fine.” I took two steps back, putting a modicum of distance between us. “Don’t worry about me, I can take care of myself.”

“I can see that.” He almost laughed, but decided to scratch the back of his neck instead. “You be careful, friend. I don’t want you getting hurt again. Whoever it was, I hope they got it out of their system. Remember what happened to Lenny back in training? He got hazed real bad. Am I right?”

“This wasn’t a hazing,” I growled. “Whoever came after me was pissed.”

Devins’s face went dark, his pupils contracting into pinpricks. “No. No, it wasn’t. I’ll see you later, man.” He left me alone and vanished among the trees.