John Karr - Detonation Event

Nuro turned and pointed the barrel at Devans. “No survivors, Ry.”

Devans dropped low and kicked high. He felt the heat from the plasma bullet pass by, and then his boot slammed into Nuro’s face. The gun fired into the floor twice more and then went silent.

Off balance, dazed, and gushing blood from his nose, Nuro wavered. Devans lunged, clasped both hands behind Nuro’s neck and pulled the bigger man’s face into a series of knee strikes. The wavering forearm did little to prevent Devans’ brutal shots from finding their mark. A lean forearm slid across a thick neck. Nuro’s features, already bruised and glossed with blood like Devans’ own, now turned blue. The two men dropped to the floor.

Devans squeezed with everything he had.

Nuro’s body went limp.

A flash of bright came with a fierce crackling sound, then Devans’ body was short-circuited. Every nerve seized up, and his senses were overwhelmed.

Daniel Shakuri pulled Devans off, who panted on the floor beside the unconscious traitor. Slowly Devans rose, then gained a knee.

They cuffed Nuro’s hands and feet. Shakuri’s arm snaked beneath one of Nuro’s, his hand gripping the back of the big man’s neck. At least a half dozen guards surrounded them. Nuro blinked and shook his head as they hauled him to his feet.

“Any longer and you’d have killed this piece of crap,” Shakuri said to Devans.

“And…?” Devans spat out a tooth with some blood.

Nuro turned. There was no remorse on his features. “EFF, Ry. Think about it. Think about how SCONA tried to kill us.”

“Think about how you killed Fres!” Devans leaped upward; his fist shot out, but another crackle and flash and he met the floor again.

They juiced him longer this time.

When he regained use of his body, he groaned and slowly pushed up into a seated position. Guards were around, but Nuro and Shakuri were gone. A health worker zipped a body bag, stood and pointed a small device. Laser beams encompassed the body, and it rose to waist level. Together they moved toward the stairs.

Devans rose, wavered, but then stood. “Wait!”

The worker halted.

“Let me see him.”

The EMT looked uncertain.

Devans reached and unzipped the bag. He didn’t look at the wound, though the fabric and flesh of the upper chest was burned. He looked at the face of his friend for a lingering moment then gently zipped the bag. He gripped the shoulder.

“You were always there, Fres.”

He nodded to the worker. Devans’ hand fell limply away from the body.

With a groan he sank to his butt and then his back. He gazed upward through the dome to the darkness of space. He waited to wake up from the nightmare, though he knew better. An emergency medical technician hovered over him, then gazed at a display of gauges that presumably reflected Devans’ vital signs.

A high-pitched ringing came from one of his ears. A few voices and sounds of people coming and going echoed in the convention center. No longer was this a gathering of the living masses. Now it was a slaughterhouse.

The EMT asked questions to gauge his consciousness level. The guy was careful not to get blood on his white jumper as he shoved a cotton ball in one of Devans’ bleeding nostrils and swabbed a couple spots on his face with anesthetic that both stung and hardly registered at the same time. The guy recommended a trip to the medical bay for stitches as he applied temporary skin as bandages.

A couple space deputies took a statement. They told him it was a formality since it was all captured on film. They were more interested in his relationship with Nuro and his motivations. And how long had Devans known Nuro was a terrorist for the EFF?

“He never showed,” Devans said. “Never gave a hint.”

“He has now.”

A scuffle nearby. The guards were blocking entrance to the dais. Devans turned and looked into the concerned faces of his remaining crew as they pressed against the outstretched arms of the guards.

Devans stood, and little white lights circled his peripheral vision. A couple deep breaths and blinking got rid of most of them as he lurched toward Burroughs, Hamilton, both Wagners, and Norquist.

“Let’s find Renee,” Devans said.

The space investigators took video statements from Devans and those who used to be part of his crew. Afterward, they talked and sat in silence for a while, then slowly dispersed.

Devans went back to his temporary quarters and turned off his mind links. No emails, no texts directly to his brain. Emergency link only, then he turned that off as well.

What could be more of an emergency than what just went down?

He thought of Renee Fresnopolis and how she might need to talk this through. Hell, how he might need to talk this through. He turned the emergency link back on.

Devans, selfish bastard.

He would need to call or see her again in a little while. Were her kids still with her? If not, she should return to Earth. Without her husband, she had no reason to remain in space.

He paced, stood, and paced again in a slow cycle in his temporary quarters. He caught sight of the bloodied and bruised face in the mirror. He didn’t care, but finally arrived at a decision to shower and wash the blood away. Put on fresh clothes. No jumpsuit. Civilian t-shirt, long pants, sneakers, a mostly unbuttoned work shirt over the t-shirt. His movements were robotic. Then he sat and stared at the wall.

He and Fres had survived so much together. Boot camp, combat, space. Always there. Through the good, the crap, and the boring crap between.

Murdered by a new enemy.

Nuro came to the army hover brigade after Devans and Fres had been piloting for five years, then took a similar path to SCONA after his tours were over. Others sometimes found him a little freakish with his manner and old-world size, but he’d always been dependable. On the surface. Fres had never been as close to Nuro as Devans. There had always been an undercurrent of friction between them. Fres had never fully understood nor trusted Nuro, though he respected Devans too much to do more than speak in generalities.

Fres had been right.

Devans scoured his memory, tried to find indicators of the transformation with Nuro. Had the man always harbored terrorist impulses? If so, he hadn’t let on. Now Devans suspected he also had a hand in PS-7 ’s demise. When that bit of sabotage didn’t work, Nuro had waited until the right moment for PS-9 . When that also failed in its objective, he went all in at the SCONA town hall.

But the Nuro that Devans knew wouldn’t have thrown his life away, just like that. There would be some longer goal in mind.

Devans worked out until exhausted. Then he found a bar and plenty of alcohol. Next day he flushed out the hangover with water and coffee and sat in silence.

He looped this every day for a week.

It didn’t make it better. Didn’t make it go away.

The third day was particularly intense, as he attended the viewing and funeral for his friend. Fres had wanted his ashes scattered in space. Devans tried to look presentable in a suit. The sunglasses were for the tears. The remaining PS-9 crew was there, and they cast concerns his way that he brushed off. Renee embraced him and cried into his chest, but he could barely console her. He suspected she was on tranquilizers. Her kids helped guide her back to her pew.

Handing the ashes to the attendant, then seeing them jettisoned into space, perhaps hit him hardest. All that Fres had been was now ash, drifting in space. It wasn’t right, but it was reality. So hell a bunch of reality.

Back to another week of abusing mind and body.

He wasn’t young enough to handle it daily, but rarely two days went by without some kind of abuse. The cycle continued for months.