Twit Publishing Presents: PULP!
Summer / Fall 2010
Edited by
Chris Gabrysch
* * * * *
Published by Smashwords
PULP! Summer / Fall 2010
Copyright © 2010 by Twit Publishing LLC
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The Soldier
by Craig Gabrysch
Sharil was yelling at the youngling axke in the back office of Lukal’s Emporium, “Look, kid, you gotta stay on the ball out there. Just because Lukal ain’t around don’t mean he ain’t watching. See those cameras in the shop? He’s got his eyes on you the whole day.” The kid’s name was Anshon, and he was a good nestling, but had a problem staying on task. “And if he ain’t watching you every second you’re clocked in, I fucking am. The Company wants a profit from this fucking place, and that means you’re out there busting your fucking ass every second for your fucking pay. The Company wants efficiency and the Company will get it. They didn’t fucking drag my furry ass off Axkume 39 to run a damned daycare.”
Anshon just stood there with his back to the office’s metal and glass door, accepting the chewing-out like it was just another part of the job, shuffling his feet and barely looking up from the floor. He involuntarily slicked his ears back and twitched his whiskers and tail. Some signs of emotion a ratling just hadn’t learned to control yet. Anshon looked up after the last shouted sentence finished echoing throughout the little office. “So we done, Sharil?”
Sharil snorted. “Not with that fucking attitude, we ain't,” he said. The older rat sighed and ran a paw back over his gray furred head. Sharil had started this job with black fur. Stress gets to you eventually. “Look, kid, your brood mom sent you out to this fucking rock to learn a trade. Not a great fucking trade, mind you, but one that'll keep you working till the Big Crunch takes us all. And one that'll keep you busy so you ain't home running around with your little ratling buddies causing trouble for her. I know your mom from way back, and she's a good doe. Just looking out for you, same as me. And since you’re here ‘cause of me, you’re my responsibility. That’s how this biz works in the big scheme, Anshon, you take responsibility for who you sponsor.
“Look, bottom line, you keep your whiskers to the grinder and don’t look up ‘til lunch. Then you got your 30 minutes same as the rest of us. ‘Til then, your ass is ours, and Lukal don’t like loafers on his watch. Neither do I. Take your licks like the rest of us, do what you’re fucking told, and maybe, Anshon, just maybe, you’ll be sitting where I am in a couple years.” Now it was the kid’s turn to snort. Sharil just shook his head. “Fine, whatever. Can’t blame a guy for looking out for you, right? Now go on and get outta here so I can get get back to my books. My job ain’t just about busting your balls.”
Anshon just shrugged. After standing for a moment to make sure that really was it, he turned and left, his tail twitching the whole time. Sharil spun around in his chair and pulled back up to the desk. Fucking kids! Just cause you rutted with some she-rat twenty years ago without covering up, you pay for it your whole life. Well, at least Anshon was working and paying his own way, not begging for a fucking handout. Some days, like today, Sharil wondered if he should tell Anshon he was really his father. Maybe that would be what made it all click for the kid. Other days, well, he wanted to shove the kid out of an airlock.
The older axke leaned back in his rolling chair, drumming his fingers on the arms. Lukal’s back office call to chew Anshon out had interrupted his closing of the fiscal period’s books. Sharil dug in the breast pocket of his shirt and pulled out a pack of filterless darnka cigarettes as he scratched his belly. What he wouldn’t give to be at a bar, any bar. Anywhere, too, as long as it was on the other side of the galaxy from this damn shop and its damn accounting. Fuck the books.
There was an array of second-hand monitors on the wall above him and a stack of paperwork on the desktop in front of him. These things he could deal with. Not that he liked dealing with them. He would have vastly preferred the old work he and Lukal had done when they’d first started out with the Company: firebombing shops, breaking fingers, smuggling, piracy. If Lukal had told him managing good for nothing ratlings who thought they knew the Meaning of the Universe already, related to him or not, was included with his promotion’s responsibilities, he’d have told his old friend to fuck off. Not a chance in all the million solar systems would he have agreed, Big Crunch take ‘em all. So what if he’d brought Anshon in? That damn mother of his had pressured Sharil.
Sharil’s gaze followed the younger axke on the various camera monitors as he headed back to the mechanics pit. Absentmindedly, he searched for a lighter in his breastpocket. Anshon walked quickly, but not from any sense of urgency. The kid just seemed agitated, a little more jumpy than normal. Sharil brushed off his concern for the kid. There wasn’t anything wrong. Probably just the chewing-out Sharil gave him.
The kid passed through the storage area on the way back out. Arrayed in stacks, rows, and piles were canisters, generators, storage bins, metal shelving units, old electronics boards, wire baskets of computer chips, mufflers, android limbs, fuel processors, memory chips. Anything you could want for your spacefaring needs, Lukal and Sharil probably had at the shop. And if they didn’t already have it on hand, they could get it. Guaranteed. Just don’t ask where some of the parts came from and your tender sensibilities wouldn’t get mussed.
Sharil lit a smoke, his index and thumb claws gingerly holding the thin white tube of darnka. They were a nasty habit he’d picked up from one of his many older brothers years ago. Felt like he’d been smoking the damned things for eons, though. He leaned forward and pulled an ashtray from the top drawer of his desk, and set it on the desktop. Sharil looked down at his paperwork and mused over how much longer he’d be stuck working. Probably hours, if not days. The Company was surprisingly strict when it came to deadlines on financials. The axke sighed for what felt like the thousandth time that day and shook his head. He leaned down and opened one of the bottom drawers, rummaged around and pulled a bottle of green liquor out. Bortsti. Well, if Sharil couldn’t get to the bar, the bar would have to come to Sharil. Oh, what he would give for a hammer and some gambler’s thumb. As he began his search for a cup or glass, a bit of movement on one of the monitors caught his eye. He grabbed an old mug off the desktop, inspected it for any fungal growth, and poured himself three fingers of the Bortsti.
There was a ship coming into the air-lock. It was a little two-man shuttle, a make and model he didn’t recognize. A middling class of ship; not a clunker but definitely not a luxury liner. Probably hitched a ride in one of the larger transports that traveled this part of the galaxy. There was no way it had made the whole trip on its own. Probably stolen, but who cared this far out? Certainly not Sharil. Besides, whoever they were and whatever they wanted, the axke working the dock would handle them. Maybe not well or efficiently, but Lukal valued loyalty and mechanical skill over customer service aptitude.
Sharil couldn’t go back to his paperwork, though. The fur on the back of his neck stood on end. He took a long drag off his cigarette and set his jaw. For some reason the shuttle’s arrival set the axke on edge. Something just wasn’t right. He could feel it all the way from his snout through the tip of his tail. He took a sip from the mug, grimacing as the Bortsti went down.
Maybe it was because he didn’t recognize the shuttle, or maybe it had something to do with the shuttle pilot still being inside. Sharil smelt something burning, something distinctly un-danske-like. He looked down to where the cigarette butt had reached his claws. Sharil yelped and put it out hastily in the ashtray. He looked back up in time to see the axke pulling dock duty, Castin, step through the newly opened rear hatch of the shuttle. Something was wrong. Dockhands didn’t go to pilots, the pilots came to them. Sharil pressed the intercom button that would patch him through to the shuttle bay. Instead of the usual crackly-poppy static, a loud BOOM came back.
“Hey,” Sharil shouted into the intercom, “what the fuck just happened down there?”
No response. Sharil asked again.
Almost as if it was an answer, a white-haired human walked out from the rear hatch. He was a veritable giant of a man, standing just over six feet tall and seeming almost as wide at the shoulders. Sharil stared in amazement as his form filled the view screen. In his right hand he held something long and sleek with a handle underneath it. Sharil was sure it was a firearm. Like the shuttle, he didn’t know the make or model, but he knew a firearm when he saw it. The man dragged the weakly thrashing axke dockhand by his coveralls down the gangplank. Castin was cradling his stomach like it was in pain.
“Hey! What the fuck’s going on down there?” Sharil asked, his voice trembling and finally breaking. The man didn’t even turn. He dropped the axke where he was and bent down over him. He asked Castin something Sharil couldn’t hear. The giant nodded his head, put the firearm to the side of the axke’s head. Sharil held his breath, sure of what was coming next. He waited for it.
The man pulled the trigger. The dockhand’s head exploded across the shuttle’s ramp in a thunderous boom that resounded through the bulkheads. Now the man moved. He pumped the handle towards him, a short piece of plastic tubing flying out in his wake.
Sharil slammed down on the emergency alarm. He looked down at his shaking paw. Shaking like a leaf. It had been too damned long. The adrenaline was pumping. He’d only triggered the alarm once before in his long tenure as the shop’s co-manager. It had been the cops. They’d wanted to search the place and arrest people. This guy? No telling. Sharil finished his drink in a single gulp.
A quick glance at the monitors showed him that all the other axke were scrambling for weapons and cover. He winced as he looked at the camera-monitor that covered the hallway outside the shuttle bay. Two ratmen lay dead, their chests were as bloody and pulpy as a pile of ground namu. What fucking weapon was this guy using?
Lukal called, his voice filling the tiny office with its own boom. Almost as bad as the gun. “What’s going on! Who the fuck is that guy!” he shouted. Sharil could hear fear slithering into Lukal’s voice. At least he wasn’t alone.
“Dunno, Lukal,” Sharil responded, his claw pressing down on another intercom button. He hoped his voice didn’t betray the abject fear he felt. The axke glanced down at the switch board. The button label LPR rhythmically blinked at him. Lukal had triggered his panic room. Ain’t no one getting in there. Not Sharil. Not any of the other axke. Not the terrifying giant with the otherworldly gun. No one. Not that bastard. Sharil wanted to scream.
Sharil tried to master the panic welling up inside. His mouth was dry and he could suddenly smell his pheromones rolling off the glands hidden beneath layers of fur and skin. He hit the button again and said quietly, “Lukal, who the fuck did you piss off?”
“I didn’t piss anyone off,” Lukal said back.
“Is he from the Company then?” Sharil asked.
“Why would he be? We’re fine on the books, still turning a profit. Look at that guy, though. He’s systematic, Sharil,” Lukal said. Fear had taken root. “You got your gun still laying around, that one I got you when we opened this place?” A loud boom resounded somewhere within the garage to punctuate Lukal’s words. This one was closer. Sharil looked at the monitors and searched through the various information streams to find the attacker. The human was stopped over Anshon’s prone form. Anshon wasn’t moving. His son. Shit. Oh no . . . what was the kid’s mom going to say?
Sharil groaned, the simple sound grinding on the dry flesh of his throat. The giant was doing something to his firearm, thumbing two inch long red tubes into the underside. The man pumped the handle and began rummaging through Anshon’s coveralls. “Hey, Sharil, where the fuck did you go?”
“I’m here, Lukal. Did you see him get Anshon?” Sharil said back. Damn, he wanted another drink.
“Yeah,” Lukal said, “I saw him. What’s that gun he’s got? Shit, fuck his gun. You get yours and wait for him. Looks like he doesn’t have any body armor. When he comes in, pop the fucker.” The pistol was a top of the line Sirius Model-18 laser. Compact, but stylish in its sleek design. The pistol was a perfect match to the Company up-and-comer Sharil had once been. The grip bonded with the skin on the palm so you couldn’t ever be disarmed unless you wanted to. You needed to press the tips of your fingers in a special way on the pommel. He hoped he still remembered how to when this was all over. But Sharil didn’t care about all that. He just cared that the pistol unleashed a concentrated beam of light that would burn through the toughest armor and any flesh, muscle, or bone beneath it. And no matter how big, how fast, how professional this unnamed invader was, he was still flesh and bone.
Sharil marveled at the invader’s graceful walk as he moved down the hallways from monitor to monitor. Sharil was almost envious of the ease with which he stalked the chopshop. The skill. When the man came to a corner he’d poke his head around it three times. The first was just a peek, the second was for a better look, third and final was for the full view. Once he was satisfied that the hallway was clear, he’d move in a crouch that kept his bulky profile as small as possible. The casual, just-another-day-at-the-office style with which the man performed these maneuvers made Sharil groan again. This guy was a professional. Probably a hitman. If he wasn’t from the Company, he’d been hired by someone else. That much was for damned sure. But, most importantly, the invader was closing the distance between him and the office with each stride.
Sharil went to grab his pistol. He kept it locked in a nondescript stashbox hidden beneath the desk. Fuck, it had been so long since he’d fired the damn thing. He cursed himself silently for all his mistakes: not going to the gun range often enough, not keeping his gun closer, not making his shophands go to the gun range, not installing a fucking panic room in his own fucking office like that fucking Lukal. He tried bending over all the way but the bulk of his belly got in the way. Sharil scrambled out of his chair and down onto his knees. He added another curse to the litany: not exercising.
Lukal’s direct intercom came on again. There was a long, pregnant, static filled moment, then heavy breathing. Lukal said over the intercom, “He’s coming, Sharil. You need to hurry.”
A very brief moment of elation filled the axke as his claw dragged across the polycarbonate casing of the stashbox. He fumbled with the latch and finally managed to pop it open.
The axke looked at the meter on the left side of the pommel to make sure the minicore had held its charge. It was still going strong. Sharil felt a mild bit of relief. Reliability. That’s what you get when you buy premium gear. He’d just take this guy out on his own. Damned ratlings out there. Getting themselves killed. It just takes a fucking rat to do a ratling’s job.
The intercom piped on, Lukal’s voice sounding terrified and small, “Sharil!”
Sharil gripped his pistol tighter, crawled backwards and bumped into his desk chair. It didn’t budge. He started to turn around to give it a harder shove. “Sharil, he’s on top of you!”
The axke turned, bringing his pistol around with him. It wasn’t the chair he’d bumped into. The invader loomed over him, his bulk filling Sharil’s vision. The hitman’s face was a slab of granite with a firm grimace chiseled into it. Too many scars to count were traced on his leathery face.
In his hands was the gun, gleaming darkly in the dull light. Sharil could smell something burning, maybe coming from the barrel of the gun. He didn’t know. Sharil brought the pistol around as fast as he could. The man was faster. He hammered the stock of his firearm into the rat’s face, fracturing his snout. Sharil fired the pistol wildly, cutting a black arc in the ceiling. The man smashed him in the face two more times.
Sharil’s world went black.
At first, Sharil wasn’t completely aware of his surroundings. Then things began to come slowly into focus. Sharil was in his office. His face and neck ached like someone had parked a space-transport on it. He tasted blood. His tongue probed around feeling for damage. One tooth was missing, probably swallowed, three teeth were loose, and a front fang was chipped badly. After dental inventory, he moved on: everyone of his garage’s crew was likely dead. Anshon was dead. Lukal was alive and locked behind a security door. Sharil was in his office, sitting in his chair. And, finally, there was a giant hitman directly in front of him leaning against his desk. All around them was silence. Sharil groaned.
“Thought you’d never come around,” the human said quietly. The man had a voice that Sharil imagined tectonic plates rubbing against each other would sound like. He sat on the edge of Sharil’s desk, idly sharpening a combat knife. Well, in his hands it looked like a knife. In most others’ it would have looked like a sword. Arrayed around him were a hodgepodge of tools from the shop: a plasma cutter, pliers, wrenches, and a bolt gun. Finally, the man’s gun was propped next to his side. Sharil groaned again. The man cleared his throat. “Sorry about your hand. You wouldn’t let go of the pistol,” he said. “I had to take it off with a plasma cutter.”
“What?” Sharil looked down at his paw. Rather where his paw should have been. Instead, there was a twisted, blackened stump. Burnt flesh and singed fur replaced a working, articulated paw.
Sharil screamed.
The man looked bored.
Sharil kept screaming. His throat began to hurt.
Finally, the man stood. He narrowed his eyes, shouting, “Shut up already.” He stabbed the blade into the desktop, punctuating his sentence. “I know it doesn’t fucking hurt, because I put the damn tranqs in your arm. And you’re not going to bleed to death, either.”
Sharil abruptly stopped.
“That's better,“ the man said. “Now, let's begin. I'll start this meeting by introducing myself. I will follow by stating my reason for this operation. I am a Menelauen, the soldier-race. I am Retired Master Sergeant Korg of the Wolf Company Drop Troopers, 3rd Battalion, 2nd Regiment, 55th Division, in the employ of Queen Adelia. You have probably heard of us. We’ve ravaged too many worlds to count and won more wars than your worthless people have ever been involved in. Business brings me to your shop.
“I am here to speak to Lukal, your boss. Unfortunately, he is behind a security door. Fortunately, I have you on this side of said security door. According to intelligence gathered from your dockhand upon entry, you are named Sharil. You are also Lukal’s right-hand man. You are both employed by the Company, an interstellar crime syndicate which operates seventy-to-seventy-five percent of blackmarket dealings in this and six other sectors of the galaxy. Any questions so far?” Sharil spit a bloody fang at Korg’s face. It connected with Korg’s chin, leaving a small blood spot. The defiance didn’t seem to phase the soldier, though. He simply wiped off Sharil’s blood as if he’d wiped the blood of another man from his face a thousand times before.
“Let’s not start off on the wrong foot here, rat. I need to speak to Lukal. Lukal is behind a security door and you’re going to get me to him. We can do this one of two ways. The easy one, where you just talk, or the really painful one where you still end up talking. Makes no difference to me. Whichever option you choose, I’m getting through that fucking door.”
Korg waited a moment for Sharil’s response. “Fine,” he said after none was forthcoming. The soldier turned around and began going through the tools. Sharil tested his bonds. Korg had been thorough, tying the crooks of his elbow to his thighs with zipties. The chair creaked as Sharil struggled against them.
Korg sighed, his shoulders heaving. He must have heard Sharil’s fur rubbing against the plastic. “So, you’re trying to get out? That’s your answer?”
“What? Fuck you, you murdering piece of shit.”
Korg turned around. He sized Sharil up economically: quickly, efficiently, with little or no regard to the axke himself.
“You know, rat, most men would have started to beat you by now. Especially, after you spit a tooth in their face. I’ll commend you instead for an excellent display of disrespect for the enemy, and your unwillingness to compromise. Incredible in someone from your race. Your people aren’t necessarily known for their willpower. Part of a Menelauen’s conditioning from birth is to learn to keep three entities, or psychological constructs, completely separated within our minds,” Korg said. He turned around, a pair of pliers used for prying bolts from bulkheads held in his massive gloved hands. He stepped over to Sharil’s side, hunkered down in a crouch and went to work. He put the tip of the pliers to Sharil’s left index claw and closed the teeth around it. “Pardon the archaic methods I’m using,” he continued conversationally, “This was supposed to be a general smash and grab. I didn’t expect your boss to have such robust security measures. At home we have pain inducers that just trigger your nerve endings. It’s much more efficient than the tools I’m using today, primarily because little to no blood is lost during the session. You still pass out, but it’s just from the pain. Oh, I almost forgot.” Korg stood quickly, leaving the pliers connected to the claw. He walked behind Sharil and began rummaging through a pack. Sharil couldn’t see what it was and didn’t care. He was too focused on the pliers closed around his claw. Was the man really going to do this? The axke’s breath came in short, quick breaths. Oh, Big Crunch take us all!
Suddenly, swiftly, Korg was next to him, his voice still conversational, “Did you know your employee Anshon was a drug addict? I found this syringe on him, some kind of amphetamine-based drug in it. A dirty drug, but it’ll keep you awake. Some of the planets we invaded gave this to their soldiers, so I’m familiar with its effects.” Sharil glanced over at Korg just in time to see the human flick the tip of the needle and push some of the drug and air bubbles out. “I think he was going for a fix when I showed up.”
Korg stuck the needle into Sharil’s leg. Sharil jerked, “What the fuck are you doing?”
“Shooting you up. It’ll keep you from passing out. That would be wasteful of our time together.” Korg pushed in the plunger. “There you go. All better. Now where was I?” Korg removed the needle from Sharil’s leg. Searing heat spread through his veins. Korg continued, “Part of our conditioning is separating psychological entities from one another. The first two are 'us' and 'them'. It’s difficult for some people to kill sentient lifeforms. Not for Menelauens.” Now Korg gripped his hand firmly around the plier’s handles. “We possess a very ‘us' and 'them’ mentality. A marvel of evolutionary theory. The third is a separation between the ‘yous.’ Your mind is your mind, your body is your body. For most it’s incredibly difficult to grasp this concept, since most sentient life's pain response is tied to their existence. It’s difficult even for us, but at least we can blunt the pain. It takes extensive practice, of course, which our childhoods and continuous meditative maintenance gives us.
“Some races, though, are actually able to switch off that pain response. That’s the way they’ve been designed, so to speak, by evolution. Then, of course, there are those that are truly engineered to have the capacity to shut off that function of their nerves. I’ll honestly say that evolution is a much better engineer than any scientist, though. There are far too many variables to consider on the battlefield and a civilian could never truly factor them all in. Even we can’t and it’s our purpose. You’d be surprised how quickly genetically engineered soldiers become genetically engineered casualties.” Korg yanked, extracting Sharil’s claw in one fluid motion.
Sharil’s hand erupted in flames of pain. He screamed. He bit at Korg’s nose, the closest thing he could reach. The soldier was too fast. Korg reflexively withdrew his face before Sharil could even consider closing his jaws. Sharil’s teeth snapped together and Korg’s massive hand immediately grabbed hold of the axke’s snout. The Menelauen forced Sharil to lock eyes. In his other hand, Korg held up Sharil’s bloody claw. Sharil marveled at how his claw looked like an aged rat’s. “Give me a way around that door, Sharil,” Korg said, “and the pain stops. Give it to me or I take the rest of your claws.”
Sharil’s mind was afire with nerve signals. His finger screamed at him to just tell the human whatever he wanted. Agony rippled through his arm. The axke felt the drugs kick in. He took deep, ragged breaths. “No, fuck you, Lukal will fucking kill me, my family, all of us,” he gasped out.
“So you're afraid of Lukal?“ Korg said, shaking his great head slowly, “is that what's holding you back? Lukal will be dead.” Korg stood and walked back to the work table.
“My fucking claw . . . my fucking hand . . . you fucking piece of shit.”
“Have I shown you my gun yet, Sharil? This firearm is truly a marvel of antiquated technology. Don't get me wrong, it's not as efficient as a laser or a plasma gun. Nothing beats those. The world I found this little trophy on hadn't even reached true spacefaring capabilities.” Korg turned around. There was the sound of oiled metal sliding on oiled metal as he pumped the handle beneath the barrel towards the pommel handle, then pulled it back up. “It's called a shotgun. Amazingly wasteful, if you want to know the truth. But very cathartic. The shotgun has this certain weight to it,” Korg explained, leaning against the desk, “that makes you feel like you're really using a tool that's designed to deal death. It fires little pellets through a chemical reaction. You see, it explodes a compound in the back of a cartridge, which then launches an entire wad of pellets through the air and into your target. The pellets aren't aerodynamic, so velocity decreases drastically at greater than ten or fifteen feet. But, Sharil, up close you shred people. And that big explosion when you pull the trigger is so much more terrifying to an enemy than the 'zzzzt' of a laser or the crackle of a plasma gun.” Korg extended the shotgun in one hand and put the muzzle against Sharil's kneecap. Sharil shook his head. The pain in his finger had begun to lessen, moving down the pain spectrum from screaming agony to dull, throbbing agony.
“No, no, no,” Sharil gasped, “you gotta believe me, Korg, you gotta believe me. If I tell you anything the Company will come after everyone I know.”
“What colony are your people from, rat?” Korg asked, his tone changing to a commanding one.
“Fuck you!” Sharil spat quickly, shaking his head violently. He knew he wasn't going to last much longer. Just the threat of that much agony was too much. Sharil had shot some gambler in the knee, had seen the pain and damage it had caused. He didn’t doubt that Korg would pull the trigger but the fear of the Company was still too great. Oddly enough, Sharil found himself not regretting shooting that gambler even though the same threat hung over him.
“Tell me what colony you’re from, or I pull this fucking trigger and we see how your leg bone’s connected to your thigh bone.”
“Axkume 39!” Sharil screamed.
Korg removed the shotgun form Sharil knee, much to Sharil’s relief. The man moved in close to the axke’s face. He addressed Sharil softly, his voice barely above a whisper.
“Sharil, do you want to know why I’m here? You know I’m a soldier, that I’m retired. You must have wondered already, but, strangely, you haven’t asked,” Korg said. He leaned forward, looked Sharil squarely in the eye.
“It’s not to collect payment from Lukal. No one sent me to push him out or edge in on his territory. I care fuck all about the Company. You people can do whatever you want when I’m finished. I’m here because Lukal has information pertaining to people I want. Those people did something horrible to a family member I never met.
“I understand your feelings on protecting your family. I feel it the same. Contrary to galactic belief, Menelauens love their family dearly. We are hard on them because we want them strong. If they’re strong, they’ll come back. Lukal knows the whereabouts of a man who, along with several other men, beat and raped my niece while I was on tour. I will avenge her.
“What you said is true, the Company is a far-reaching force to be reckoned with. They will come after you. They may go after your family. But, believe me, you have two much more pressing concerns.”
Korg cocked the shotgun and pressed the muzzle to Sharil’s kneecap.
“Your first worry should be for your knee,” he said. “You answered my question about where you’re from, Sharil, but you haven’t answered my first: How do I get to Lukal? Robotic prosthetic knees don’t work very well and they never truly meet the expectations of the unlucky owner. That’s if you can even get medical attention this far out. You’ll probably die in that chair, sitting just above a pool of your own blood. You’ll be in agonizing pain up until almost the last moment.
“Your second worry is me. The Company will come after you, like I said, and may go after your family, but I certainly will. I will let you bleed to death here, just like they did to my niece. Then I will blow up the station just to kill Lukal. I need information he has, but that information is probably available somewhere else. I've already come this far up the Company's command structure, so I know it can be accomplished through another avenue of attack. After I demolish this station I will go to Axkume 39. I will find your family. I will kill them. Then I will find your associates and friends, whoever it is you buy your smokes from, for instance, and I will brutally murder them. Then I’ll move to the city level and outward. If I run across someone you share common strands of DNA with, I will kill them. I will exterminate your worthless people. You have my word of honor. Now, I want a way around that door.”
Sharil locked eyes with Korg. There was intensity within those orbs. A terrifying intensity unlike anything Sharil had ever experienced. Korg was serious. He would find whatever and whoever it was he wanted. Then, when they were dead, he would move onto the extermination of the axke. But why? Simply because he’d made a promise. Korg’s honor demanded it. Sharil swallowed. It was hard, but he did anyways. His stomach turned from the influx of swallowed blood. He nodded slowly. “Okay,” he said, “okay. I’ll give you the code.”
An hour later, Korg returned. “Still with me, Sharil?” Sharil nodded. The drugs had kept him twitching throughout Lukal’s agonized screams. Korg drew his blade and slipped it between Sharil’s fur and the zip tie. He cut upwards swiftly, releasing the axke from his bondage. He leaned against the desktop, arms crossed.
“I've called an ambulance ship. You'll want to get that finger taken care of and your stump looked at. They'll take care of the bodies also. You're lucky you answered my question. I'm not one hundred percent familiar with axke physiology, but I'm pretty sure that the blood loss from losing a knee would have killed you already.”
“What about Lukal? Did you get what you wanted?” Korg nodded. “Then what about me? Aren't you worried about me talking to the Company?”
Korg shook his massive head again. “No. Now you're mine. You'll continue to work for them. I still need information on other members of the Company, and you're going to help me get it.”
Sharil shook his head. “Fuck you.”
Korg just sighed. “My promise still stands. I'm leaving now.” And just like that, Korg strode to the door. He stopped, said, “I’ll be in touch,” without turning and walked out of the office.
Sharil leaned back in his chair, his breath ragged. He needed a smoke and a drink.
# # # #
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