Iscariot

[Zapp]

“You have spunk. I’m a good sense of character.”

She still didn’t reply. She heard his hand run through his hair, and a sigh.

“I . . . have done some bad things. Horrible things. I’m a murderer, a terrorist, a monster. I’m what goes bump in the night.”

As he continued to talk, as if the words had been pent up in him for years, she got a sickening dread in her stomach. Who had she rescued?

“And at the end of the day, the only mark I’ll leave on Sirius is a trail of destruction. The only reason I tell you this is because I have nobody left. Everyone I’ve ever cared for is dead, burned away. I am the last of my kind, as far as I’m aware—the last Phantom. I can’t even say the name I was born with anymore, they’ve erased it from me. I’ll die Iscariot, the monster in black.”

They jumped to Omicron Delta.

Winn’s hands clenched the controls, even though autopilot flew the craft. A Phantom. A real, live Phantom. He really could kill her in less than a second, and likely without a second thought. What could she do?

He continued.

“I tell you this because my conscience is getting the best of me. It’s coming back. I need to atone. Can you please take me back to Liberty? Cut through Zeta, Minor, and Ellesmere. Once there, the LSF should take care of me.”

She was silent, and then sputtered, “Take care of YOU? They’ll take care of us! Do you think they’ll just take you away in handcuffs? They’ll blow up the ship!”

“They won’t. They’ll want to take me alive, and may even pay you a bounty. Please, just do it. I’m tired of fighting. My old bones ache.”

She adjusted the course without a word. She had a bad feeling in her stomach about this, but something about the man seemed genuine. She imagined he had done unspeakable things. And then her morbid curiosity got the best of her. Unspeakable? She shifted in her seat and smiled a little. Winn was a Freelancer after adventure and fortune, not a Zoner like her parents. And this was a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. Such was the way with her: fear was short-lived, often outpaced by wonder.

“So,” she began coyly. “How does one become a Phantom?”

“Painfully.” He stopped for a moment. “It’s a process called indoctrination. They break down who you are, bit by bit, then build you back as a drone. Most Phantoms were mindless pawns, but some—like me—were unfortunate enough to retain our critical thinking. We were the officers.”

She mulled that over for a bit. “And they teach you how to kill things?”

He shook his head. “You can’t teach that. You experience it. I was already a soldier, before. I was in the Liberty Navy.”

“What about the armor you’re wearing, what’s—”

He cut her off.

“You’re treading thin ice. Be careful how many questions you ask, it’s a topic best left with the rest of the Phantoms: in the grave.”

The rest of the flight went by in silence.

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