Logbook entry

The Righteous Path

17 Aug 2017Isaiah Evanson
“The path of the righteous man is beset on all sides by the inequities of the selfish and the tyranny of evil men...” - Ezekiel 25:17

“If I open the door, will you let me live?”

He couldn’t stop the trembling in his voice; the adrenaline coursing in his veins made his entire body shake. The barrel of the gun pressed into the base of his skull didn’t help either. But the man holding the gun needed him. He was here for the ship, so he said. And if he didn’t open the main hatch…

He didn’t see the gunman come into the hangar. He only heard the words.

And the gunshots.

The screaming.

The pleas for mercy.

He was the only one left.

He swallowed hard, repeating his question. “Will you?”

The barrel of the gun, still hot from expelling projectiles, scalded him when the gunman pressed it against his neck.

“Open it.”

“I don’t wanna die, man,” he said to the gunman. “I’m just a rock hopper. That’s all we were doing.”

That wasn’t necessarily true.

They had used the ship to smuggle human beings, narcotics, weapons, and all manner of other contraband across hundreds of star systems. He didn’t know where they’d gotten it. He was a hired hand, working to keep the ship flying.

The Cobra was covered in spikes fashioned from the skeletons of old vessels. The paint, once shiny and blue like the day it rolled off the assembly line, had worn and faded to gunmetal and rust. Pieces of hull plating were gone. Wiring and harnesses were exposed in some places. . Once proud and emblematic of the working spacer, this Cobra had lost its pride long ago.

So why does this guy want this ship so bad?

“I don’t care who you are. Open. The. Door.”

He looked over his shoulder at the man holding the gun. A black helmet — a Remlok maybe? — covered his face. A sound filter gave the man’s voice a distinctive robotic quality. From what he could see, the gunman wore a black cloak of some sort, trimmed in blue and made from some material he couldn’t quite place.

“Just promise me that you’ll let me go—”

With a strength that he’d not expected, the gunman had grabbed him by the collar of his suit and practically thrown him off the steps of the Cobra’s undercarriage. With a sharp crack of pain and stars in his vision, he landed against the hangar floor.

Heavy steps, slow and deliberate, echoed as the gunman descended. Looking up, he could see the short-barreled rifle folding up and being tucked below the cloak. A flash of light reflecting off a polished blade caught his eyes, and before he knew it, the gunman was looming over him, knife at the ready.

“Why are you doing this, man?!” he cried out, trying to scamper back from the gunman. A foot pressed down painfully on his sternum, anchoring him to the floor. He gasped raggedly. “Why do you want this ship so bad?!”

The gunman bent down and grabbed his wrist, then pinned it to the floor above his head, palm facing up. The gunman’s knee was pressing down now; the pain was unbearable.

“How many fingers do you have?”

Five.

He repeated the number to the gunman.

The glint of the blade caught his eye and he watched as the point of it went to the base of his index finger. Slight pressure made the gunman’s intention clear. Instinct kicked in. He threw his free hand up to try and swat it away, but the gunman reacted quickly and thumped the knee on his sternum once.

He recoiled, gasping for breath, a wave of agony washing over him. The gunman grabbed the finger and pressed the point of the blade into the skin. It was a quick cut, just enough to get the blade under the skin.

“No, no, no! Don’t take my finger off!”

The gunman paused. The helmet almost imperceptibly cocked to the side, as if the gunman was perplexed.

He swore the gunman was staring into his eyes from behind that soul-black faceplate.

Searing pain whited out his thoughts. Tissue split, cracked, separated. A scream. His scream. The flesh of his finger was being pulled from the bone. Animal instinct demanded that he fight back but the sight of skin separated from bone kept him from acting.

Ripping. Tearing. Chunks of flesh were ripped away. The screaming was raw throated and savage. He found his mind again and started beating on the gunman with his fist, howling, trying desperately to fight back. The knee on his sternum pushed in harder until the screaming stopped and only smothered sobs remained.

The savage released him and rose to his feet, throwing a mangled heap of meat onto his chest.

Eyes followed the trail of blood to the stained and mangled framework of his fingers, his hand, the skeletal structure that lay beneath: completely bare and exposed to the elements. And yet he felt no pain, save for the cut above his wrist where flesh still remained.

A ragged gasp. He exchanged another look with the gunman.

“Why?”

The gunman’s head cocked to the side again.

“It’s my ship.”

From under the cloak came the sight of the gun the man had used to slaughter everyone else. It was aimed squarely at him.

He wanted to scream, to do anything, but nothing made sense. Shock was setting in. Blackness swirled at the edges of his vision. He felt faint, staring at the gunman.

The blackness swallowed him whole.

* * * *


Quantrill flinched at the muzzle flash on the display. He should have been used to it by now, having watched this man do the same thing to nearly a dozen others in the hangar. Yet there was a finality to this man’s actions that left Quantrill with a profound sense of dread.

The cloaked figure stood motionless for an eternity before lowering his gun and tucking it back beneath the shroud. Static pricked Quantrill’s ears and demanded his attention.

“Any activity outside the hangar?” the disguised voice said.

“None,” Quantrill replied, checking the monitors once more to ensure he wasn’t mistaken. “You’re still good.”

Not a surprise. This is the Pegasi sector, after all. No one sticks their neck out for anyone if they don’t have a reason to.

The man on the display retrieved the mangled flesh on the dead one’s chest, then turned back to the Cobra and ascended the boarding ramp.

Quantrill thought back to how he’d been introduced to the man that had senselessly slaughtered the group of pirates in the hangar. They’d met in Zearla some months back, the man — who he knew as Preacher — having sought him and his group out to modify an Imperial Clipper for an unnamed task. There were specific requirements that made it very fast, very light, and capable of jumping very far for a combat-fitted vessel.

When Quantrill and his crew took delivery of the vessel, they were expecting to have a brand-new piece from the Gutamaya shipyards. What they got was a gutted corpse of a ship, stripped down to the bare duralium plating and superstructure. Preacher had paid for the fitting and the ship twice over, and had put a premium on getting it ready by a specific date.

So they went to work, rummaging through junkyards and “repossessing” Imperial ships to pull together a functioning, spaceworthy ship. Preacher provided the materials needed for the modifications, and within a month they had constructed a ship that rivalled military-spec ships of the same class.

It surprised him when Preacher had reached out to him for assistance in tracking down a specific ship — a Cobra Mark Three named The Righteous Path. Quantrill balked at the idea until Preacher offered up another hefty sum of money.

How could I argue? Whoever this guy is, he’s obviously willing to part with his credits without a second thought.

It had been a painstaking process. There were only three bills of sale, one of which dated back into the 3230s. It had been owned by one Alton Evanson of Eravate, then later sold by his son, Ezra, to a group of traders in Tau Ceti. Years passed. The ship apparently became the spoils for a group of pirates in the Pegasi sector, who went through great pains to try and alter the ship’s internal registration.

The ol’ Pegasi spit-and-polish. Shoddy work, if nothing else.

Quantrill tracked the ship to an anarchy planetary base. Some quick recon of the group revealed they were nobody special and not attached to any of the number of pirate clans and slaver gangs — and so he gave Preacher the green light.

Quantrill’s stomach turned as he looked at the bodies on the floor of the hangar. He’d had no idea that Preacher would do that.

“Are you sure we should be dealing with this guy?” came the voice of Jesse from over Quantrill’s shoulder. “Look what he did to them. What if he thinks we’re trying to double-cross him?”

“We aren’t trying to double-cross him,” Quantrill replied, holding up a hand. “His money is good, even if his methods are…” he paused, pursing his lips. “... questionable.”

“He slaughtered a bunch of pirates,” Jesse said, his voice high in pitch. “And what kind of getup is he wearing? Did you see how that rifle shot bounced off of it?”

Quantrill had seen, all right — whatever Preacher’s cloak was made of, it was capable of taking the brunt of the impact from a rifle round. He’d heard of some Imperial military types wearing similar cloaks, particularly in high-risk regions of space where the Imperial army was stationed to keep the peace.

But Preacher was no Imperial. He’d had a Federal lilt to his speech. So how did he get his hands on that kind of kit?

More questions than answers, it seems.

Static washed over the comms again. Preacher spoke.

“Fingerprints are a bust. Door’s not budging. Someone might be aboard. Locked out.”

“Thought that might happen,” Quantrill said. “Do you have your jack?”

A light flickered green on Quantrill’s console in answer.

The little device was something he’d come across in the early days of his repossession work. Illegal in virtually every system with laws on the books, the “jack” was a small, innocuous tab that allowed the user to interface with most flight computers. Some only needed to be in close proximity to tap into a ship’s internal network — others required a bit more force, but that had never been an issue.

“Plugged in,” Preacher replied. “Work fast.”

“Okay, let me try runnin’ the bypass…”

“Hurry up.”


* * * *


Within a few seconds, the door to the ship slid apart. The lights of the cargo bay flickered uncertainly ahead of him.

“Door’s open,” Quantrill said in his ear.

A step inside. A rush of recollection. His eyes followed the overhead light to the end of the corridor.

“Someday this ship will be yours.”

He stepped inside. The door slid shut behind him.

“I’ll be a few minutes,” he said in a low voice. Static hissed, causing feedback in his earpiece. He cut the comms link.

I need silence for this.

Mechanisms activated in his cloak, deconstructing and retracting the helmet from around his head. Freed from the augmented overlays and light amplification, Isaiah Evanson could see the state of his grandfather’s vessel with his own eyes.

The smell. Oh god, the smell. Sweat, sex, smoke, blood, shit...

Death.

Isaiah wrinkled his nose, erupting into a coughing fit. He covered his mouth to keep from gagging. It was nothing like he remembered. As he made his way through the corridor, the scent became stronger, nearly overpowering him. But he needed to see this with his own eyes.

The cargo bay was strewn with garbage and refuse, with pools of liquid in some places. Reddish black stains covered the bulkheads in places. Shackles were attached to the cargo racks, devoid of cargo canisters.

He struggled, trying to breathe in through his mouth. A whiff of the unholy scent forced him to gag again. Unable to stop it, the bile built up in Isaiah’s mouth and in split second he spewed the contents of his stomach on the floor.

Hunched over, Isaiah’s body shook as he spilled his guts where some other poor soul must have done the same. In the back of his mind, he remembered his grandfather, hearing his voice.

“The vertigo will pass, son. Just give yourself some time. Space takes a little getting used to.”

He was just a child then. It was his first time off-world. He’d gotten sick then too. His grandfather had stroked his back as he’d filled a waste bag with his lunch from earlier that day.

“Everyone gets sick their first time around. It’s nothing to be ashamed of,” his grandfather had said with a chuckle.

Isaiah retched again, then wiped his mouth, trying to collect himself. He’d grown somewhat accustomed to the scent in the air now. Rising back to his full height, he looked around at the rest of the cargo bay. Scratches and marks of all kinds adorned the walls.

They were running human cargo in this ship.

Slaves.

Isaiah felt the tears beading in the corners of his eyes. His hands curled into fists as he moved between decks, up into the cockpit.

Everything was switched off, but Isaiah’s mind drifted back to his first time in the cockpit.

He remembered sitting in the passenger seat, looking out of the viewport in wonder as his grandfather lifted off from the Chantilly starport. The clouds whipped past as the Cobra climbed higher into the sky, until blue gave way to black and the skies gave way to stars.

“You’ll never get tired of it. There’s no other feeling like it.”

What once had been pristine was now tarnished. The seats were tattered and worn. Overhead panels were removed, wires hanging haphazardly from their compartments.

Anger welled up in Isaiah’s chest. His hand crashed down on the back of the pilot’s chair, and he screamed his rage at the scene of the slaughter below the ship. His rage was unrequited — the murder had not been enough to sate his animosity.

He wondered what his grandfather would have said if he could see him now.

Isaiah was trying to collect his thoughts when the sound of shuffling behind him caught his attention.

When he turned, he saw a young boy — no more than eight years old — standing there in the hatchway. Half naked, he was brandishing a knife, held precariously with both hands, pointed at Isaiah.

There were cuts and bruises all over the child’s body. Other markings, unfamiliar to Isaiah, adorned the child’s arms and legs. There was a ferocious glint in his eyes as they locked gazes with each other.

All at once, Isaiah’s anger died out. All he could think about was helping this child. Maybe the fit of rage he’d flown into might mean something more than mere revenge.

He raised a hand, palm up, offering it to the child. “I won’t hurt you,” Isaiah said quietly, taking a step forward.

The child’s eyes went to his hand. A look of mixed emotions crossed his grease-covered face for a moment. They locked eyes again.

With a scream, the child lunged forward, driving the blade towards Isaiah’s chest. Isaiah reacted quickly, grabbing the boy’s wrists, hauling upward. Without thinking, he drew his sidearm and pumped three rounds into the child’s body.

There was a look of shock and terror on the boy’s face as he slumped forward. The knife fell from his hands.. Isaiah’s ears were ringing, but he could see the child mouthing something — dying words falling on deafened ears. He could not tear his gaze away from the boy's eyes as the life drained from them.

Slowly the child sank to the floor, blood pouring from the wounds in his chest in torrents. Isaiah released his wrists and let the body fall, stepping back until he bumped into the Cobra’s dashboard.

He couldn’t comprehend what had happened. He could only stare at the corpse before him, seeing but unable to believe. He’d killed a child just as quickly as he’d murdered those holding him captive. There was no rhyme or reason, only violence.

Guilt overcame him. Tears ran down his cheeks as he sank to the floor, dropping the pistol to the deck. He drew his knees up to his chest, cradling himself, averting his eyes from the dead body.

I’ve changed. Just like this ship. We’re not what we used to be. We’ve become something horrible and twisted and…

You did this. 

Holding his face in his hands, Isaiah wept. Wept for the years of lost time, of dark deeds done, the loss of innocence and the corruption of whatever dreams he still held onto. No matter what he did, there was no way back to the righteous path.


* * * *


Quantrill watched as Preacher descended the ramp from the Cobra’s interior, cradling what looked a small body swaddled in dirty blankets. The somber expression on Preacher’s face told him all that he needed to know about what he’d found aboard.

“Were we followed?” Preacher asked as he approached Quantrill, not sparing him a sidelong glance.

“Not that I saw. But that’s not to say someone won’t come looking.”

“I’ll handle it,” Preacher replied as he walked past.

“What happened in there?”

“Not for you to know.”

Quantrill scratched the back of his head, watching as the cloaked man walked towards the clearing, well away from the place where the Cobra and Imperial Clipper were parked. He watched as the man lowered the swaddled body into the shallow grave, noticing the reverence he seemed to show to the deceased.

Quantrill could make out Preacher’s words on the wind every so often, spoken in hushed tones.

“You didn’t deserve to die like that…”

“... the life that chose us…”

“... given something more in death than you were in life.”

“I will live with this for the rest of my days.”

He listened to Preacher’s whispered eulogy with surprise. It baffled him how someone so brutal could be so gentle in his dealings with the dead. Preacher was a contradiction. The savagery Quantrill had witnessed gave him one impression of the man, but this challenged it. Perhaps he wasn’t the unfeeling killer he once thought he was.

He has a code — an ethos.

The sun hung low on the horizon. Sensing that the end of the impromptu funeral was at an end, he approached Preacher and made his presence known.

“What is it?” Preacher asked with thinly veiled irritation.

“I’m guessing you want me to take that Cobra and restore it to its former glory,” he replied quietly, staring down at the freshly-tilled soil. “It’ll cost you. Double if it’s a real mess in there.”

“That would be appreciated.”

“I’ll make sure to put a proper finish on it then.”

Preacher grunted his approval.

They stood for several long moments. A cool breeze caught the scent of the flowers from the meadow not far from where they were.

“I have to ask you something,” Quantrill finally said, working up the nerve to voice his curiosity. “You didn’t have to slaughter those pirates. I could’ve stolen the ship for you and gotten away clean. Why’d you do it that way?”

Preacher sighed heavily. “It was intended as a message,” he said, leaning on the shovel he’d used to bury the body. “A warning.”

“A message to whom?”

“The watching gods.”

“Do you think they’ll reply?”

Preacher shook his head. “They haven’t yet.”
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