Arjuna

[Squad]

Part I of III

The whirring of his room’s integrated air system was a welcome noise, especially since it was accompanied by nothing else.

For the past four hours, Johnson’s feet had been crossed at the end of his cot and his eyes studying a series of religious texts on his datapad. Reading was still a fond hobby after five years on Freeport 10. But Johnson’s peace would be temporary, as all stints of quiet seemed to be.

Several research stations in nearby systems had reported a new viral outbreak that spread through skin to skin contact. Exposure resulted in severe hemorrhaging and, eventually, death by internal bleeding. For the past two weeks, Freeport 10 had been in quarantine with no ships allowed in or out until the Zoners researching the virus could curb its spread.

As he stretched out to force blood back into the outer tips of his body, the whirring was suddenly accompanied by a soft tap at the door.

“William.” *knock*knock* “William, I need to talk to you.”

Johnson wrestled himself from his cot, and approached the door. Matthew Blakely’s harsh rumble of a voice was unmistakable, particularly when coupled with a name that “Syren” hadn’t heard in a number of years.

When he opened to door, Blakely shuffled in. A full foot shorter than Johnson, he had a stout build that made him appear fatter and softer than he actually was. A brown trenchcoat covered most of his body save for a cotton sweatshirt underneath, the hood hiding his receding blonde hairline.

“Matt, how did you find me?”

Johnson hadn’t spoken with anyone save Matthew the night he headed to the bar on Gran Canaria and the night he left it a wanted man. Matthew was preparing to try the case while Johnson sat at bar with him.

“I saw you in the bar last week. The bartender showed me your room.”

Freeport 10 needs a new tender. If he could find me, so could others.

Johnson eyed his fellow suit suspiciously but invited him to sit down and closed the door quietly behind.

For ten minutes naught was heard but the familiar whirring.

Matthew looked up, apparently distressed. His eyes were bloodshot and his lips quivered as the words were almost forcefully pushed from his mouth.

“S-s-she took them. Catherine took the kids.”

Catherine Blakely was a beauty. She was Matthew’s first fancy in graduate school, and her flowing auburn hair and striking green eyes would remain in any man’s memory. But she was as kind and caring a mother as she was beautiful as an object for the more base desires of men.

“Who put you up to this?”

Almost immediately, a flush of rage crept around Matthew’s neck.

“I came here for help, not to hear you question me like a bastard.”

But that’s what I am.

Blakely pushed a note across the table, which Johnson took in his hands and opened while reclining against his cot.

Dear Matthew,

I love you with all of my heart. The past seven years we have had together have brought me nothing but joy.

But…

And in life there is always a but…

I love our Micah and Caroline even more. They need a father, someone who spends time with them, takes them to games, attends recitals. Your work is your life, I understand. But they need more than that. I am sorry.

Love,

Catherine

---

[Squad]

Part II of III

Johnson brought his eyes from the paper to Matthew. He had never been the most dashing of fools, but now, he was merely a sack of skin for a random bone or two.

They’ve done a good job trying to get to me this time.

“Matt, things are different now. What do you expect me to do? What do you want me to do?”

Matthew paced about the far side of the room with his back turned.

“I came to find a tracker. She was seen docking here a few weeks ago, someone in the bar even said she had two children with her. They’ve been here once at least, and I’m certain they will be back.”

The wrinkles on Johnson’s forehead made it more than obvious that he did not share his comrade’s certainty. If he had seen her, he would have known.

More bait, perhaps.

“Look, if I had seen Catherine, I would have told you. But I haven’t. Rumors in this part of the sector will get you killed, and I don’t mean to help a friend from a former life on such a goose chase. We’ll both go down for it.”

Matthew flushed again and turned around, pointing an accusing finger in Johnson’s direction.

“A FORMER life? You HAVE no life. You threw the blessing of Gran Canaria away for some bloodthirst.”

Johnson leaned up, an arm on his thigh. Appropriately, Matthew bent down, finger armed, until then men’s faces were a few inches apart.

“You disgust me, you traitorous, dishonorable, leeching bastard.”

*Whoosh*WHOOOOOOOOOOOOOOM*

The room shook. Johnson half expected to see Matthew on his back in a pool of blood, but for the first time, the comforting whirring of the room took a back seat to sirens and horns.

Johnson shoved his way past Matthew to the small port above his bookshelf. It was the only window he had, but there was rarely anything worth looking at. This time, however, things were different. The westernmost docking port was heavily damaged. The door was pushed in by force, and the thrusters of a small ship could still be seen at the edge of the opening. Sparks and other debris were making their way from the point of impact, and Johnson could still make out the waves of energy from the collision making their way through the station’s super structure.

He turned towards his cot, lifted up the thin mattress, and tucked his gun away in a new holster he had found at his door two weeks previously.

“From your guardian angel,” the note had said.

“With me,” he gruffed at Matthew.

Partially dragging the still stunned man through the corridors, Johnson passed siren upon siren. With the station so empty as of late, he was certain the crew could not see to repairs and rescue quickly if it was needed. The station’s lights were out, and the only guidance the pair had were the emergency lights located, ever so conveniently, directly below the sirens.

Johnson tucked his pistol and made straightaway for the docking bay.

Naught a single soul in sight.

The thought made him more comfortable. If things were to get ugly, perhaps he would have a chance to use Matthew as a hostage. He didn’t know if he was running toward or from death. Yet in the end, there was only one way to find out.

Several minutes later, they came upon the docking bay control room. The glass viewing pane had cracked during the impact, but it held the vacuum on the other side at bay for the time being. Inside the bay itself, the nose of the small freighter nudged ever so gently against the corner of the southern and eastern walls. It had apparently come in quickly at an angle. If there had been someone there at the moment of impact, his or her body was rupturing in the emptiness of space with the other debris thrown from the bay.

“My god, who would do such a thing?”

Matthew held his face in his hands.

“We shouldn’t be here.”

Johnson narrowed his eyes. The bay itself was lifeless.

Do I stay? Does he have companions here? Do we leave? Was this a rouse to get me away and uncomfortable? Is someone waiting…

His thought was immediately cut off by the sight of three silhouettes emerging from the port side of the freighter. The door had been forced open, and each figure seemed to be wearing the light colors of an atmospheric compression suit. As soon as the largest of the three exited, they immediately fell to their knees.

Johnson turned away, pushing Matthew over the control panel.

“What the hell are you doing?”

Johnson’s arm was shuffling its way through a similar compression suit hung at the far side of the control room.

“I don’t know. But something must needs doing. And you aren’t the man for it anymore, Matt.”

---

[Squad]

Part III of III

Johnson sealed the magnetic hinges and boots of the suit, checking each possible seam for damage or signs of repair. Finding nothing that aroused suspicions, he activated the suit’s magnetic soles and found himself more connected to the floor below him than he had ever cared to be. He took a few steps toward the airlock, but his gloves were hindering his fingers from grasping the turn style. With a second hand, he broke the tight seal and pushed open the door, closing it behind him with the opposite side of the turn style.

Through his visor he found a series of helmet straps buckled into the airlock’s titanium frame. Hesitantly, he wrapped a strap through the trigger guard of his pistol and fastened the loose end to one of the anchors.

God, I’m going to regret this.

He forced the second door open with little more than brute strength. The hydraulic mechanisms lost power in the collision, and they put up a fight less welcoming than what Johnson handled on a much more typical basis.

As he entered the vacuum, the sirens died away and were replaced with a consistent *hoooo*haaaa* of his respirator. Through the vapor, Johnson made out the silhouettes, making his way to the larger of the three. Though indeed larger, it was small in comparison to him. He bent down slowly and deactivated the suits magnetic boots. Freed, the body slowly lifted from the floor where Johnson caught it. The icy cold of space had clouded the body’s visor, but that was of little import.

As he opened to airlock door and shut it behind him, the space re-compressed. Johnson took off his helmet, laid the body down, and scrubbed the front of its visor with his hand.

Auburn hair. Green eyes.

Menacingly green eyes. Bloodshot and bleeding. Veins in Catherine’s face were red and hemorrhaging, her green eyes hiding a well of pus and degeneration. He leaned over her face and could hear the rattle of strained and time sensitive breathing. Johnson knew then what he would find on the docking bay floor.
Matthew tackled the airlock door, banging the turn style and begging Johnson to let him in. A short time after bringing in the third body, Matthew was able to open the style and he pushed the door free.

Standing in front of him, Johnson gave Matthew a grave look. He was beside one of the smaller bodies with his plasma pistol in hand. The muzzle was smoking, the metal shocked by firing after being frozen by the vacuum of space in the airlock.

“I’m sorry, Matt.”

Matthew ran to one of the bodies to look. It was Micah. His face blistered, bloody, and ripe with dead flesh.

Matthew stood up. He turned, lips quivering.

“They were alive.”

"Were."

In an instant, Matthew Blakely collapsed to the floor in a pool of blood. A family reunited.

*Click*Clack*Click*Clack*

His shoes made a reassuring rhythm on the floor as Johnson paced back to his room. He had shut the airlock before removing his suit and overridden the airlock’s computer assisted operations. From the control room, he looked on in silence as the second door permanently opened and space welcomed the Blakelys with open, and cold, arms.

He knew too much. How did his find you? There will be others, he couldn’t have been alone.

*Click*Clack*Click*Clack*

But they were infected. You were merciful. Their deaths were a blessing, much moreso than the one awaiting them. The station must remain quarantined or you could have ended up the same way.

*Click*Clack*Click*Clack*

Once you did, though, why kill Matt? He was your friend, a good friend, a best friend. He could have lived.

“He was already dead inside.”

Johnson reached his door and sighed. Cautiously, he opened the door and entered with his pistol at the ready.

Clear.

*Whirrrrrrrrrr*

He picked up his book, picking up right where he was when he heard the knock. Holding the datapad in one hand, he sat on the cot while slipping his boots off. Once done, he shifted his body so he could stretch out. Both hands returned to the datapad.

The Bhagavad-Gita.

“Everyone is forced to act helplessly according to the qualities he has acquired from the modes of material nature; therefore no one can refrain from doing something, not even for a moment. One who restrains the senses of action but whose mind dwells on sense objects certainly deludes himself and is called a pretender.”

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