Blood and Water

[Commissar]

Accessing Maltese National Database

Accessing Bay 87, Malta.
Confirm identity.
Josias Santillian
*********

Welcome, Lieutenant.

Subject: Isabel Santillian.
Access security feed?
...Y/N?
Y

0508:23, ZULU TIME - Camera 3
Hangar Bay 87, Planet Malta

Malta's hangar bay had always reminded Isabel Santillian of a graveyard. Fighters sat empty in their docks, dismounted weapons lying beneath the grey hulls like flowers at the grave of a departed lover. All but one of the ships was bathed in shadow, patiently awaiting the arrival of their pilots. Even the hangar's tireless maintenance machines had retreated for the night. She was as alone as it was possible to be on a planet inhabited by billions. Walls lacked definition in the gloom, and the wide corridor seemed to stretch on forever. The scene was beautiful, in its own way.

Isabel's Dagger, the sole illuminated craft in the bay, looked depressingly inadequate next to the lines of Sabres. Not for the first time, she wondered if the tiny ship would even break atmosphere before it fell apart. It was an old ship, based on an even older design. Older, even, then the Maltese battleships hovering over the planet. This particular fighter pre-dated the houses' brief, misguided, war with the spirits. The ship had not aged gracefully. Seals around the cockpit were rumpled and incomplete, venting precious oxygen no matter what she tried to seal it, and she was certain that the escape pod's release clamps had locked up. Cardamine might have extended the Maltese lifespan, but it did nothing to keep their ships running.

She tossed a final bag lying at her feet into the Dagger's open cargo bay, the bag landing with a muffled exhalation of compressed clothing. Isabel had little experience with fighters, though she still possessed the almost supernatural reflexes common among the Outcasts. The result of a lifetime's dependence on cardamine. She had no doubt that her reflexes would be a more reliable ally then the pile of scrap she was expected to fly. A mask sat on the Dagger's seat, waiting for her. Cardamine in its processed form was expensive, and she didn't have enough to flood the ship's interior. She would have to wear the mask until she returned to Malta, a homecoming that could easily be years away. Waves of nausea passed through her at the idea of the re-breather clamped over her mouth like a suffocating hand, day and night, the weight of it dragging her down as surely as any noose.

Survival. The old mantra sprung into her head unbidden. Survival first. Worry later. She had survived Malta. Survived years of solitude, anger, and resentment. Endured neglect and payed off her family's old debts twice over. Run the plantation when Jonas faltered, though it had meant little to him in the end. Somehow, she would survive this too.

Footsteps rang out on the metal flooring, echoing in the narrow bay. There was a steady pattern to the footfalls, like the ticking of a clock. A ticking clock or a marching soldier. Isabel wrapped a hand around the Dagger's wing protectively. It was too early in the day for regular military flying, and there were no other privately owned ships in Hanger 87. It had to be one of Jonas' men, no doubt come to take back what little baggage she'd been able to secure to pay off one of his countless debts.

Hadn't they taken enough from her? Jonas' greed had already robbed her of a life on Malta and condemned her to work for the families. She felt like a mannequin, a walking copy of a real human being. Even the clothes she wore weren't truly hers. An electronic beep reached her ears, and she pivoted to face the noise, shoes squealing across the metal floor. A pair of boots rounded the Dagger's nose.

"Isabel?"

Log Ends

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May you live in interesting times.
| Sarah McFarlen | Jane Hartman |