Rest and recovery.
24 Jan 2016Desert Fox CXVII
The frigid winds of a Capitol winter bring the final high pitched strains of bagpipes drifting over the congregation. I grip the podium with white knuckles, staring down at the eulogy I had composed for the ceremony. The gold fringed medals and ribbons pinned to my black and grey uniform glint in the azure light of the sun. Behind me stretches a vast field of rolling hills and emerald grass covered in upright slabs of white marble. Before me is the casket, a long rectangular box of polished mahogany inlaid with silver and carry handles made of sculpted ivory. All around it are arrangements of flowers from each corner of the Empire, showing off every color of the rainbow.Beyond that are rows upon rows of black-clad mourners flanked by four full squads of stone-faced Imperial marines. The widow sits in the first row, a black veil covering her face and a folded flag clasped in her trembling hands. I can hear her muffled sobs, the sound like a cold dagger being plunged into my chest.
Just as I open my mouth to speak, I fall back, the funeral shrinking into the void as I rush away from it. As the image fades, I can hear my words echo to me as if through a long tunnel. Even though they are indistinct, I remember every syllable as if they were uttered yesterday. A tear rolls down my cheek.
I hit the wet grass hard, a hundred pricks of searing pain burning in my chest, the wiz-snap of bullets cracking by my head. Each breath I take is agony; I feel the metal shards tearing at my lungs, shredding me from the inside out. Blood fills my throat, my anguished cries drowned in gurgling tides of crimson. I'm going to die; this forgotten world in a lost corner of space will be my grave. I'll never see my parents again. My sister will grow up without a brother. Darkness envelopes my vision, the color fading from the world around me.
The medic's voice is distant, his voice faint and garbled. I can feel his hands desperately trying to keep me alive. I close my eyes, ready for the oblivion of death to take me, ready for the hands of the Valkyries to guide me to the halls of the honored dead.
Then, as if out of nowhere, the screaming roar of engines, the tang of exhaust, the blistering heat of afterburners.
I open my eyes; high above me are the eagles, painted in pure Imperial white, streaking across the sky like meteors. Fire erupts from their noses, spraying death and hellfire down upon the enemies of the Empire.
All at once, vibrancy rushes back into the world, sweet air rushes into my lungs, and my heart redoubles its efforts. I can hear it beating away in my chest like a great drum, feel its urgency. This rock will not be my final resting place; I will rise up, I will continue the fight. I will endure.
The lead eagle banks, exposing its cockpit to the ground. Even hundreds of meters in the air, I can see her face; she has skin as pale as snow with hair the color of a neutron star and an expression of pure hatred etched across her features. She is the hammer of Thor, the spear of Freyja, the wrath of the gods. She is my Valkyrie.
I awaken amidst pain and glory, not to the face of a Valkyrie, but to the face of an angel. Not to a face etched in ice, but to a face molded of sand and fire. She smiles, her teeth flashing in the sterile light of the florescent bulbs above my head.
"Welcome back."
I blink, the dream still vivid in my mind, the last image swimming behind my eyelids. I feel as if my mind is full of unrefined wool, the world around me fuzzy and out of focus. My thoughts creep to me slowly, as if mired in molasses. Through the haze of drugs and medication, it all returns to me, bit by bit; the mission, the grenade, the panicked flight to the hospital, and my arm.
My arm! My gaze darts downward and falls upon the white plated mechanical monstrosity attached to my torso, its steel and polymer fingers twitching in the artificial light. My eyes widen, bulging from their sockets in horror and recognition. A scream bubbles its way up from my chest, but dies in my throat, my voice caught on something unseen and unheard.
"Whoah, easy Tiger."
As the residual adrenaline from the dream filters from my system, I feel my blood pressure return to normal, the pounding in my head receding and my pulse slowing down. I take a deep breath and look up at the woman sitting before me.
She's wearing the same leather jacket she'd been wearing in Utopia; the front is undone, revealing a shirt with the words "Vulture pilot, since badass isn't an official job description," written on the chest. Her purple-red hair is pulled to the left and the right side of her head is shaved clean. Her crimson lips are pulled to one side in that maddening smirk of hers as she regards me with supreme amusement.
"Look," she wiggles her grey mechanical fingers at me. "We match."
I sit there, absolutely dumb struck, the morphine keeping my thoughts sluggish and disjointed. What the hell is she doing here and not halfway across the galaxy, spending her pay? Why the hell was she sitting there, sipping on a cup of coffee, cracking wise and acting like we're friends?
I screw up my face, trying to formulate words, but something between my brain and my mouth had been disconnected, and nothing comes out.
"Although," She looks down at her hand, a look of mock disappointment in her eyes. "Yours is a lot nicer than mine." She shrugs and takes a sip of coffee.
I just sit there like some kind of big stupid barnacle, opening and closing my mouth in a desperate attempt to say something. All that comes out, however, is the garbled groan of a deaf person trying to speak for the first time.
She just rolls her eyes and reaches over to close my mouth with one finger. "I liked you better when you could string two words together without drooling." Another smirk. "Although, I suppose I could settle for the strong silent type."
Finally, my mouth catches up with my brain. "What are you doing here?" I blurt out without thinking.
She lets out a snort of laughter and covers her mouth with one hand. I feel my cheeks burning; thank god my skin is dark enough to hide the blush. "Making sure you're ok, what does it look like?"
I narrow my eyes, my thoughts still sluggish and lethargic. "But... Why?"
She laughs again and brushes a strand of hair from her eyes. "Isn't it obvious? Dead men don't pay. I never got my second half."
Right. I still owed her 750 grand. That still didn't explain why she was here in person, sitting by my bedside. I open my mouth to ask, but she cuts me off.
"Plus I never actually finished the job, did I?" She reaches down with her free hand and grabs a ratty old black assault pack and tosses it to me. It lands on the bed beside me with a dull rattle. "Figured I'd deliver the goods in person, you know."
I continue my expert stump impression, glancing from the bag to her and back again several times. She just smirks and gestures to the bag. I take that as my cue and reach over to grab the bag.
It's heavy but mostly empty. I unzip the top and take a peek. Inside are two objects; one is rectangular with little copper prongs on one side, and the other is spherical and covered in pulsating blue lines. The data drive and personality core.
I fall back onto my pillow, a huff escaping from my lungs. In all the excitement, I'd forgotten all about the reason we'd gone out there. Nevertheless, a wave of relief washes over me now that I wasn't going to be responsible for an all out Fed offensive. I won't be executed or enslaved. Loosing an arm is a fair trade, all things considered. Now all I had to do was to explain everything to Imperius, leaving out the part where I lost classified data and retrieved them with the person who stole them. Piece of cake, right?
I lay there for a couple seconds, eyes closed, my hand inside the bag and resting on the personality core. There is no sound, save the beeping of my heart monitor and my breathing. Reid sits next to me, sipping on her coffee. Even though I can't see her, I just know she's smirking at me. A smile of my own starts creeping its way onto my face at the thought, but I squash the impulse, doing my utmost to maintain an expression of calm.
The sound of her chair sliding across the floor breaks the silence. "So that's my part of the bargain finished." The heels of her boots make soft thuds as she walks toward the door. "Now it's your turn, flyboy."
I crack one eye open and look over at her in the doorway. The image is blurry through my eyelashes, but I can still make her out; she's leaning against the door frame, her hip cocked to one side and a thumb jammed into her belt. "I'll get it to you when I get out of here, don't worry."
She laughs and tilts her head back. "Oh, I'm not worried." She turns to go, but looks back at me at the last moment. "I prefer cash."
With that, she sweeps out of the room. A smile spreads across my lips as I listen to her footsteps recede down the hall until they are swallowed by the ambiance of the hospital.
Partners indeed.