Redemption

[Gardarik]

The humming of the cruise engine stopped as the ship slowed its pace and approached the gravitational anomaly. “Shields - check. Life support - check. Engine - check. All systems nominal, you are ready to jump”. The emotionless and calm voice of the board computer was comforting, making the task look like a daily routine. But what was lying ahead was far from ordinary for Michael Ferguson. “C’mon, c’mon, Michael! It is fine, everything's gonna be alright!” - he said under his nose while steering his “Nephtys” into the jumphole. “It is just another jump, nothing more. You’ve done it a hundred times, there is nothing to worry about”. Despite being an Order pilot with experience of traversing the Omicrons, Michael still remembered his days with the LPI when visiting Ageira PR managers discouraged police officers from using jump holes. He even still remembered their childish-like chant “Gates are in and out, hole is nowhere around”. Did they also tell it to school children as well? The old catchy chant was crossing his mind every time before the jump playing on Michael’s nerves.

As the ship dived into the rift, Michael calmed down. Come what may. He closed his eyes as if accepting his inevitable death but in only a few moments the feeling of sudden acceleration stopped, indicating that the ship had successfully come out of the wormhole. Michael opened his eyes. Pale green light of the local star was reflected by small ice particles around the ship as if it was amids a deposit of floating emeralds. Somewhere in the distance a faint blue and green dots could also be seen. A three-starred system, truly a marvelous sight. For a moment Michael felt sad that the circumstances that had brought him here were not fitting the beautiful scenery “Destination reached. Current Location: Kunashir Cloud, Sigma 17 system, quadrant 6F”. The mechanical voice of the board computer recalled Michael from stargazing and gave instructions on his further destination. The course was set and Ferguson leaned back in his chair, trying to relax. He remembered Dr. Colbert’s advice that assuming a relaxing pose could help to wind down. Michael knew well that a cold mind was preferable for extreme situations and that he should rely on calculated reason to make use of his rigorous police officer and subsequent Order operative training. But he could not help it: emotions were overwhelming. It was about his sister after all.

He hadn’t seen her for five years already. An easy-going teenage girl and junior-high sweetheart must be a young woman by now. Lisa had always been a treasure for her older brother and offered consolation and selfless support whenever he needed it. Her kind heart and optimistic nature helped him to get through endless night-long cramming for the exams, the challenges of the police academy and endless screeching of Sergeant Pike, heart-breaking divorce with his ex-wife Mary-Ann…. Feeling as if his body was being submerged into ice-cold water, Michael became overrun by guilt. He betrayed her, his treasure, his beloved little sister.

Tiny sparks were twisting on the cockpit in an endless mesmerising dance when tiny ice particles of the Kunashir Cloud were hitting the shields of “Nephtys” which was steadily approaching the destination. “5 minutes remaining until reaching the destination”. But the usually soothing mechanical voice of the board computer could not alleviate the inner uneasiness of Michael. Having some time left, he was recollecting how he joined the Order. It seemed so right at the time. LPI proved to be a corporate machine protecting the common folks on words only while in reality maximising profits as any commercial company would, even at the expense of its mission to the society. Deals with corrupted senators enjoying their lavish lifestyles, tortures of prisoners to force them to admit committing a crime they had never heard of, shady deals with the corporations and bounty hunters… The list would go on. But it seemed like other graduates of the police academy did not care. Years of school education praising the Libertonian law enforcement model had their impact on the children. His social studies teacher from high school, Mr Glen, appeared in his mind in a vivid memory: “Giving the police duty to a specialised corporation would result in less burden on the government funds and increased corporate-like efficiency for the greater benefit of Libertonian society”. Michael smirked, such explanation would never justify what the police had been doing. Although, those still resenting would most likely keep their mouth shut because of hefty paychecks and corporate non-disclosure agreements. Michael remembered how depressed he was just after a year of work, how he would come home moody and would drown his sorrow in a bottle of fine Liberty ale. No wonder Mary-Ann left him. He was pathetic, he lost his life focus and was not living but merely existing. Nevertheless, he persevered for his family and his little sister. Good salary kept the family afloat and was a safeguard for his sister’s good future.

Everyone was free in the House of Liberty, just as the name of the Great House implied. But freedom came at a cost. Imaginary Mr Glen was again standing in front of Michael. “Our society is based on capitalistic mutually beneficial relations. Your parents pay me for teaching you, while I pay for all sorts of services that your parents offer in line with their professions. Everything has a price to reward and give credit to the hard work and abilities of every member of our society. Free cheese is only found in a mouse trap. We do not want to return to the communist ideas preached by the Coalition which led to the Great War of Sol and exile of our people, do we?” But what if you cannot afford the services? When Michael’s father was diagnosed with a radiation disease which he surely had got during his work on portable nuclear power plants, the company he had given 28 years of his life refused to approve the case as falling under the medical insurance. It was cheaper to hire a lawyer to prove that the disease was not related to the work carried out for the company. Kind people helped raise some money to alleviate the symptoms but his father would fully recover to resume working, enjoying scraps of a salary that a senior worker with a disability could enjoy and some “farewell payment” from the previous employer. All hopes were for Michael to become a police officer and help at least his sister to have a good education. Expensive education.

The three stars of Sigma 17 were shining brightly to the starboard of the ship, the pale green mist of the Kunashir cloud disappearing behind. “2 minutes remaining until reaching the destination”. Michael checked his personal blaster on his hip and took a few grenades from the stack behind the seat. His heart was pumping in a fast beat, as if someone was playing drums on his chest. Would he be up to the task? Perhaps. He was an excellent marksman after all, one of the best among the cadets. No wonder he was noticed by the higher-ups. So it was not a surprise when Lieutenant Murdoc approached him at the canteen. “You are a good fella, Ferguson. I like your shooting. If you have the same aim with the ship blasters, criminals will stand no chance! Assigning new officers to their squadrons is next week, so how about you join mine?”. Murdoc was not the best yet he treated his wingmen well so Michael gave it a shot and soon was flying under Murdoc’s command. Who could have known at the time that Murdoc was not a police officer but an undercover Order operative. It was a miracle how he hadn’t been revealed for so long. As Murdoc would brag later on: “Liberty was busy witch-hunting among its navy ranks, not bothering to look at greedy policemen''. Everything comes to an end, however, and when Murdoc decided to run having stolen a database on prisoners held in Fairbanks, he asked Michael to run with him.

“You hate this life, Mike. I know it. I see it every goddamn day in your eyes. You keep drinking and living like this and you're gonna die early. Come with me instead, the Order fights for what really matters and for all of humanity. It will give you a real purpose. If that is your family you are worried about - I have a plan”. And he did have a plan, daring yet simple. They would stage an attack on Michael’s ship and destroy it while Michel would be hiding in Murdoc’s cargo hold. It would take time to scramble interceptors, enough for Murdoc’s “Liberator” to disappear in the nearest jumphole. Murdoc would escape, Michael would rid his pitiful life, and his family would receive a good support package for a police officer KIA. Everybody would win. But Michael didn’t know that a rigorous investigation following the attack would not find a single burnt piece of his flesh, not a single strain of his DNA, and that his family would receive but a modest “comfort money”. His father would soon thereafter die of radiation disease complications without proper treatment, and that without a bread winner his family could only dream about sending Lisa to a good University. That Michael would learn only later on when already living on Akabat. Discovering it would break him and infuse with a sense of guilt until his final hour. His new busy life kept afloat, however. From time to time Michael would check the available news on his family and monitored social networks to get any scraps of information. What a pleasant surprise it was when he found out Lisa got a job, and not somewhere - but at Cryer. Apparently his young sister had a good head on her shoulders and got a scholarship. At least his “death” did not prevent her from getting successful and this gave him hope and motivated him to move on. He did not hope to meet her at the time, he was dead to everyone home for what it was worth. Everything changed today, though.

Just five hours ago an unexpected notification popped up on Order’s ships in Sigmas and nearby Omicron systems. It was a distress signal from a Cryer vessel in Sigma 17 which apparently was attacked by either the Outcasts or the Corsairs. Michael couldn’t believe his eyes when he looked on the screen to check the message. It was her, Lisa, his little sister. Older than he remembered, but still resembling her last pictures he had seen on the social network. On the screen was a young woman in a white lab coat, her hazel eyes full of primal fear. “This is Cryer Pharmaceuticals vessel <<Prosperity>>. We are under attack, I repeat we are under attack. Our shields are down and our defense systems are barely holding them back . I think they are going to board us. We have eleven civilians aboard, all unarmed. Whoever gets this message, please help us! Cryer will reward you handsomely. Lord, please have mercy on our souls…” The orders from the command were clear: do not interfere, the Order could not spare its few vessels dealing with the Outcasts or the Corsairs at the moment. Every ship and pilot counted. But Michael could not care, it was his sister down there. He betrayed her once, he would not repeat his mistake again. He was her big brother, it had always been up to him to protect Lisa. This time he will not abandon her. This was the time for redemption of his past transgressions, even if it cost him his position with the Order, or his life.

A small dot became visible on the horizon which the computer identified as the source of the distress signal. It was a “Bison” - a sturdy reliable transport in the employ of Libertonian corporations often used in hazardous environments like Sigmas or Omicrons. Apparently it was going for Atka, delivering supplies. As Michael’s “Nephtys” was closing in, more details of the scene became recognisable. “Prosperity” was drifting in space, its engines visibly damaged in a precise shot to prevent the ship from running. Small debris which apparently used to be the cargo were floating around a big hole in the lower part of the ship. No other ships were in the vicinity, the surroundings being painfully quiet. “Am I too late? Please, be alive. God, please be alive!” Michael warded off bad thoughts and concentrated on the scene looking for clues to help him decide upon the course of action “Were it the Outcasts? Precision is uncanny. No, the Outcasts would not try to board a Cryer vessel, they would simply blow it up. The Corsairs, perhaps?” He knew that the Outcasts were exceptionally fast and skilled sharpshooters, a side-effect of living in Cardamine environment, so it comforted him a little that they are less likely to be encountered. The Corsairs, unlike their Maltese brethren, were more brute but not less skilled. He has met a few on Freeports and even on Akabat during friendlier relations of the Order with Crete. Despite always willing to prove themselves in combat, they were prone to one of humanity's oldest weaknesses - greed. Perhaps he could try to reason with them by telling about Cryer’s ransom or remuneration for saving the crew Michael was willing to pay for his sister. Otherwise, at least the Cretans are not as fast as the Maltese...

“Nephtys” approached close enough to scan for life signs. “There! There are still 13 life signs aboard the vessel, all in the crew bay!”. Michael smiled - there still was hope. “Probably, they left with the cargo and left some raiders behind to look over the hostages”. He still was looking nervously on the scanner for any vessels nearby - it could be a trap after all, or the attackers could be returning for their friends. Time could not wait, he had to act fast. God knew how long this damaged “Bison” could hold. He put on a helmet, magnetic boots, and checked again on his personal weapon. “All good, ready to go. Initiate vacuuming the cockpit!” The remaining oxygen was sucked back into the reserve containers behind the seat and the cockpit was slowly depressurised. Michael stood up and jumped towards “Prosperity”. A few seconds felt eternity in still soundless void as he was drifting towards a hole in the cargo bay. “Breathe in, breathe out… You can do this, Mike!” His heart was violently pumping as he was approaching the destination. Although having experience in space combat, he had never participated in a boarding operation. His shooting skills would come handy, but would he be able to pull the trigger facing another human being? Shooting ships was easier - you didn’t see the person behind the control slick, their facial expression, fear in their eyes. It was just like aiming at a practice target in a simulation. Michael clenched his teeth. “For Lisa I would shoot anyone, even the devil himself!”. As he approached the breach in “Prosperity’s” hull, Michael did a flip and landed on his magnetic boots with a “click” sound indicating successful traction. Now his way lied ahead - to the crew bay.

Moving slowly and steadily, Michael readied his blaster and activated motion scanner. Nobody around was moving. The data being relayed from his “Nephtys” were still showing that none of 13 life forms had changed their location. “Hold on, Lisa, your big brother is almost there. I won’t let you down this time!”. He reached the airlock separating the main deck from the cargo bay - a typical practice for transports that sometimes had to deliver the goods in close-to-space conditions. Dim red light of the airlock was in contrast to the emerald shimmering outside and Michael instinctively squinted. Hot air enshrouded his suit as it was released from the vents to level up the pressure. He tightened his grip on the blaster and assumed the shooting pose. Airlock door opened. For a few seconds Michael was standing still, pointing the blaster straight into the dimly lit corridor ahead of him. Nobody was around. His eyes were maniacally looking at every corner expecting an ambush. But nothing was happening. Unsettling silence reigned. The helmet was smothering and limiting the movements. A data tab attached to Michael’s arm was showing that the environment still had a breathable atmosphere, so he took off the helmet and took a deep breath. The air was stale, as if nobody had been breathing around for quite a while. No signs of gunshots, no dead bodies, no traces of melee. The situation was getting more and more suspicious. But he must carry on. It is unlikely that the life signals picked up by his ship were fake. This is too complex to fake for some raiders, or even redundant. Step by step Michael was slowly approaching the door to the crew bay while pointing the gun at it. “Almost there, sis, almost there. I got you”. He was prepared for a gunfight but just in case primed a grenade behind his back - if those were Outcasts, perhaps it would be better for all of the passengers to die instead of becoming slaves to such cruel overlords. No, he should not. He could not take the life of his own sister, even as an act of mercy. If not him, perhaps someone else would help her.

He approached the door. There were still no traces of the attackers. No banter, yelling or sobbing from inside the crew bay could be heard. Strange. According to his ship’s scanners, all of the people aboard must be dead ahead of him, right inside of the room behind the door. It was a massive wide metal door akin to one in the airlock capable of automatically closing down should the ship suffer pressurisation failure. The door was big enough to allow for good vision for shooting in all possible directions, so if Michael was fast and accurate, he could take all of the boogies before they took cover. No negotiations were needed, they could jeopardise him. But how many boogies were there? The distress call mentioned eleven crew members, “Nephtys” scanners showed thirteen life signs. So there were at least two. Given that all of the eleven are merely civilians, two scary-looking armed brutes were enough to hold the hostages. He had seen no traces of fight, so probably “Prosperity’s” crew surrendered to victors’ mercy and nobody had been killed. Still, there was a chance that there were more than two boogies. Regardless, Michael was ready to shoot as many as he could. On a practice range his record was five targets in two seconds. Fast, but was it fast enough for this situation? And what if they were standing behind the civilians? Michael’s hands were shaking, his skin felt like burning. “Breath in, breath out”. His vision blurred and everything blackened for a second. Dizziness hit his head and he leaned on the wall. No, he could not faint, not like this. He was an Order pilot, some best pilots around Sirius as they were told. Nevertheless, it was his first boarding operation and in violation of his orders. And he was alone. “Ok, Mike, you can do this. Showtime!”

He violently smashed the button with his fist to open the door and swiftly moved to assume the shooting position behind the door crack. Bright white light from inside blinded him for a second, yet he could discern three figures standing over other people sitting on the floor in the middle of the room, approximately 10 metres away. Those sitting were all wearing white and those standing had more imposing postures as if wearing some kind of an armor. “So someone from the crew is missing. No time to analyse, time to shoot. The distance is short enough for a few quick precise shots”. His blaster spewed six fast blasts, three thuds followed.

Smoke was slowly curling upwards from the pointed blaster as Michael was heavily breathing, his senses coming back. Ten people in rugged lab coats were sitting inside of the room with an expression of terror on their faces still not realising what had happened. Three bodies, two men, one woman, in crudely made metal armor were lying around, still clenching on their weapons. One of the bodies, the woman, was holding a sword with a symbol of what seemed like a bull’s face with horns. “Corsairs, hmph”. They were dead. No iron or steel armor could stop a plasma projectile. Besides, he shot once in the chest and once in the head not to take chances. Seemed like he had missed on one raider’s head, but a smoldering hole in his back did not leave any life signs interpretation options. All boogies were down. “I-i-i can’t believe my eyes, Sir! You saved us! Thank you so much!” said one elderly man as he was standing up. “Lisa, your signal actually made it through! Thank God! We already were losing hope…” The man came up to Michael but stopped two metres in front of him, still wary of the gun pointed in their direction.

“Forgive me my manners. I am Doctor Cole, the science advisor aboard the vessel. Our captain was executed by these savages for trying to resist. God have mercy on her soul. So, I am the highest ranking personnel here. And you must be…”

Realisation it was over came to Michael only now when Dr Cole spoke. He lowered his gun and tried to smile to ease the tension. “My name is Michael Ferguson, I am with the Order. I wish no harm and came to your distress signal to assist”. Despite his awkward nervous smile, he tried to sound good-willing and polite. His eyes, however, could not focus on Dr Cole but were looking at the other nine crew members seeking his sister.

“M-m-michael Ferguson? I-i-it can’t be… Although resemblance is uncanny, you can’t be him. He died five years ago”. A woman in her early twenties stood up piercing him with an attentive gaze, her hazel eyes filling up with tears. “You can’t be my brother!”

Michael dropped his blaster and moved towards the woman. “It is really me, Lisa, your brother! It is a long story to explain, but it is me!” His voice started trembling. “I did not die in that accident. You cannot imagine how sorry I am. That I left you behind, that I made you think I am dead. For everything. But I am here now. Please, forgive me!”. Lisa was standing still, not even blinking, and tears were falling down her cheeks. It looked like everything inside of her broke, everything she believed in, everything she was made to believe in. Michael expected her to start screaming at him, or falling on her knees and weeping. Instead, she ran close to him and gave a big hug one could expect from a long not seen little sister. Lisa was holding him tightly without uttering a word as she was crying with joy on his shoulder. There he was, her brother, her saviour, alive. Now, nothing was separating them. He atoned his guilt, he fulfilled his redemption…

The dim red light of the corridor was flickering in a menacing way. Reigning silence aboard “Prosperity” was disturbed by the thud of Michel’s body falling on the floor. His limbs were unnaturally twitching as he was slowly losing control over his body. He never pressed that button, never opened the door to the crew bay, never shot at the corsairs… never saved his sister. It had been a trap after all. It had not been the nerves when he briefly blacked out before opening the door, but something evil, something alien attacking him from the ceiling, choking and overpowering him. A distress signal from a distant system turned out to be a trap, something that the Order had always been warning about its operatives. But Michael had been too blinded by his brotherly love and violated the orders, falling another victim to what the Order is sworn to protect humanity from.

Michael’s mind and spirit were strong to hinder the integration of an incubus by rejecting him on a subconscious level. Not to risk the loss of the host body in the process of assimilation, a cruel alien mind sent him visions, something soothing, something for him to accept his fate, something that gave him hope. In his mind, Michael had saved his little sister and was with her now. He achieved his redemption. No more guilt, no more need to fight. Michael was genuinely smiling, tears of joy filling his eyes as the last pieces of humanity were leaving him and his body was yielding control to an alien being inside.