Paths of Absolution: Part One
03 Jul 2022Dixon-Phyre
So many fights. So many lives taken. And all Mikael could do was watch as the other continued the slaughter. Staring, as if through a window, as his hands pulled triggers, smashed skulls. As he retreated to his ship in pain and fury; as he treated his many wounds. Simply hunting down criminals had no longer been enough to slake the other’s appetite for destruction and vengeance. Soon he saw himself plunging from a dropship onto battlefields, wreaking havoc with the guns he had carefully crafted. The Aphelion laser rifle, rapid-firing and accurate at long range; the Oppressor for when the enemy got nearer, and the Zenith pistol for close-quarters work. His dark reputation spread from bounty hunting to mercenary work, and opponents grew to fear the sight of those cold, white eyes glaring at them through the visor.
An industrial settlement, without power and badly damaged. He would never recall the factions involved or even who he had been fighting for. Injured, he had sought refuge in a building, desperately seeking medical kits to replace the ones already used in this conflict. Staggering though the haze-filled rooms, until he spotted a med-station. Grimly tore the kits from the housing, used one to stabilise himself, stashed the other in his pack. Breathing heavily, reloaded his weapons and prepared to rejoin the fray.
He was almost to the airlock, picking his way through the fallen when he stumbled. Looked down...to where a gauntleted hand had grasped his ankle. He slowly turned and stared at the prone figure. Right leg almost blasted away, scars of shrapnel damage all across the suit. Behind a cracked, misted faceplate, a pair of eyes met his and froze him to the spot. Over the comms channel, a female voice, weak with pain and very, very scared.
“Help me...please...help me....”
The other gazed at the insignia of the fallen soldier. Huh. The enemy. Leave her to die. Better still, finish them off –
One hand had started reaching for his pistol
Reaching for his
Looked at those eyes and saw...
Anmarie’s eyes, just after she bombed his beloved Cobra.
Annabel’s eyes, terrified, as the other placed the barrel of the flechette rifle against her forehead.
Ophelia’s eyes, gazing into his as they had made love.
Gazing into his, down the barrel of a pistol. Then the kick to his head that had opened a crack in the other’s grip on him, allowing him to resurface briefly...
Angel...
His back arched, and suddenly the ever-present shadows at the edges of his vision started writhing. “No,” he said calmly, “not again. Never again.” Mikael found the edges of that crack, forced them apart and -
- took back control of himself.
A deep breath, turned and knelt, retrieving the medkit from his pack. Synthmorphine first. Dressings over the damaged leg. His suit repair kit yielded sealing tape to cover the shrapnel entry points, the damaged faceplate, over the shattered leg armour.
“How’s your suit for power?” he said. The prone woman, drowsy now from the painkillers, mumbled a reply. “Uhhh...maybe thirty percent....”
“Okay,” he said, “tell me when it gets below twenty.” He packed everything away, crouched and gingerly slid his arms underneath the woman; she flopped an arm round his neck. Now to get out of here. He kept his suit light off until he was clear of the buildings, to avoid anyone seeing him absconding from the battle. Walking steadily, watching where he put his feet. No wish to jar the wounded soldier.
He couldn’t recall the last time he had walked five hundred metres in one single go, let alone five hundred metres over rocky, uneven terrain whilst carrying a badly injured woman. But five hundred metres was the distance he had to get them from the fighting before he could call for a shuttle without it risking getting caught in the crossfire from the automated ground defences.
Although the moon’s gravity was low, his muscles began to burn from the exertion of his burden, arms began to tremble. There was a tap on his helm, and he looked down.
“Take a rest, you pillock,’ mumbled the woman, “be no good if you keel over too. And my suit battery is down to ten percent.” Thankfully, there was a reasonably-sized boulder maybe twenty feet ahead; he made for it and carefully let the rock take the weight. He pulled a power cell from his belt and plugged it into the charging slot on the woman’s backpack.
“I said to tell me when it was at twenty percent,” he said levelly.
“Ah, ten percent, twenty percent, whatever...”
He glared at her and bit back the retort that came to his lips. As the fatigue poisons drained from his arms, he lifted her again and turned to check the distance from the buildings silhouetted by explosions and tracerfire. Another two hundred metres to go. He took a deep breath, set himself and began to trudge onwards.
A cloud of vapourised ice enveloped them and a shower of small pebbles rattled on their suits as the Apex ship touched down not far away. The pilot looked startled as Mikael awkwardly manoeuvred the two of them into the cockpit.
“Sorry,” he said after he managed to get his visor open, “medevac situation. Happy to pay extra…”
The pilot, younger than him - brown hair cut short, hazel eyes in a round, striking face - rose and helped him get the wounded soldier into the chair. “No, it’s okay,” she said, “wouldn’t be the first time. Part of our training, actually.” Her face had paled when she glanced down at the ruin of the soldier’s leg.
“Pull that handle on the back wall, emergency seat. Let’s get moving!”
As soon as they were both seated, the Adder lifted and angled upwards. Rather than going straight up and boosting as would normally be the way, the pilot kept them at about forty-five degrees until clear of mass-lock, then eased the nose up and accelerated gradually until they could go into supercruise.
The medical team that awaited them at the station swiftly got the casualty onto a stretcher and hurried her away. Mikael followed, feeling a strange sense of loss as she disappeared from view. At the infirmary, leaning heavily on the counter as the receptionist took details.
“Her name?”
“Sorry. Don’t know. Wasn’t really the kind of situation for formal introductions.” The woman smiled at him. “Not a problem. And you?”
“Commander Mikael Dixon.”
“Thank you, Commander; if you want to leave some contact details, we can keep you updated?”
“That would be appreciated.”
Stood in the hanger lobby, staring at the sleek metallic form of Burning Spectre. Found he did not want to go aboard - too many memories of the ship from when the other was in control. Shuddered, turned his back and headed back into the station to find a hotel.
A chiming sound roused him from his troubled sleep. Several pints of ale in the hotel bar had relaxed him enough to get some kip, but his dreams were full of strangeness. He sat up in bed, heart still pounding, noting the rumpled, sweat-dampened sheets. Recalled his night with Ophelia, how she had writhed and perspired in her nightmares. He took a deep breath and swung his legs over the edge of the bed. Oh bless you, angel, he thought.
Fumbled for his wristerm, activated it and squinted at the message through blurry eyes.
“Hello Commander Dixon. This is the infirmary. The woman you brought in would like to see you.”
He slowly pushed the door open and stepped inside, clicked it shut and faced the bed. Took a sharp breath.
A pretty, heart-shaped face that had healing shrapnel scars, framed by platinum-blonde hair lightly dyed pink. She appeared to be slumbering. He quietly pulled up a chair, sat and stared at her. A frame under the sheets over the damaged leg.
“Bloody woman,” he muttered, “you ask to see me and you’re asleep when I get here. Don’t even know your name, so I can’t curse you properly!”
He rested his hands on the bed rails and hung his head. Sensed a movement and a soft sigh - looked up to see a pair of glorious blue eyes sleepily meet his.
“Ramona,” she murmured, “that’s my name…”
Mikael felt his cheeks flush and then looked away. “Sorry,” he muttered. A hand reached out and touched his face.
“Gosh,” she murmured, “can’t remember the last time I made a boy blush!”
There was a long moment. The hand slowly brushed down his jawline.
“And what about you, my saviour, my knight? How are you called?” She let out a breath and her head slumped into the pillows.
“Mikael,” he said quietly.
“Mikael…” she repeated, “from ancient Terra, Eastern European or Scandinavian variant of Michael. Saint Michael, chief archangel, spiritual warrior, slayer of evil…”
Ramona’s eyelids fluttered. “Oh, sir knight, forgive me. Full of dope, so drowsy.”
“It’s okay,” he said, “it’s okay.”
Her eyes focused again. “Mikael…please would you come and see me…again? The medics are all lovely but they can’t waste time on just sitting here.”
He swallowed. “Of course I will.” The words were out of his mouth without any forethought. She managed a smile.
“Thank you, sir Mikael. Aren’t you just the sweetest…”
Her face relaxed into sleep again. He sat for quite a while, helplessly looking at her, but she did not rouse again before a nurse entered to say visiting time was over.
The next morning, he returned to find the room lights dimmed. He entered hesitantly, but a quiet voice spoke up.
“S’okay…I’m awake…”
He slowly approached the bed and saw the tears streaking her cheeks. “Ramona?” he said, sitting down.
“Hey there….just feeling sorry for myself.”
“Don’t blame you.”
She let out a shuddering breath. “Doc’s just been to see me,” she stated calmly, “they can’t save the leg. No surprise there really.”
“What else?”
“Oh, aren’t you the perceptive one?” She smiled sadly. “Seems the blast that barbecued the leg also fractured my pelvis…”
Mikael looked at her and bit his lip. “Oh crap. I probably didn’t do that any good did I? Lugging you out like a sack of spuds.”
Her hand touched his face. “No way you could have known. Besides, you were ever so gentle.” She paused, swallowed. “But some of shrapnel got inside. Damaged stuff. Ovaries. Womb. You know.” Her chest heaved and a fresh stream of tears flowed down her face. “Not that I…was planning on having a family any time soon…but, you know, as a woman…it’s a tough thing to hear…”
She held her trembling hand out. Mikael paused then took it in his own.
“And there’s nothing…”
She made a face. “Oh, possibly. But it would be quite intrusive and would put me out of action for a few weeks. I’ve been laid here for two days and it’s driving me nuts. I can’t even roll over in bed.”
Those intense blue eyes flickered towards him. “So I’m going to be a cripple. A sterile cripple. Sterile useless cripple.”
Mikael gave her hand a slight squeeze.
“And you know that’s a load of BS,” he said softly.
“Oh of course, my knight. They’ll put the mounting points for the prosthetic in when the leg comes off. But I’m just having a well-deserved mope!”
“And you don’t strike me as the least bit useless,” he murmured. She squeezed his hand in return.
“You’re too kind,” she said, an ironic smile passing across her face.
“What will you do when you get out of here?”
There was a long silence. She flushed and lowered her eyelids. “I, er, told them you were going to take care of me.”
Mikael peered at her. She would not meet his gaze.
“You were going to look after me, weren’t you?” she said in a tiny voice.
He let out a long sigh. “Well, I can hardly say no, can I? Not now.” His tone was a mixture of amusement and annoyance.
Saw more tears rolling down her face.
“I’m sorry,” she mumbled, “you shouldn’t have to do anything more than what you’ve already done…”
Mikael rubbed a thumb across the hand he held. “Don’t be daft. I’ll do whatever I can for you, for as long as you need.”
She swallowed and finally looked at him.
“Why?”
There was another long silence, their eyes not moving from each other.
“Least I can do. I saved your life; but you may have just saved my soul.”
Ramona took several breaths before answering. “Okay….I guess you’ll explain that to me at some point…”