HMS Valediction

Chapter 18.3

My eyes are tired from opening after all these bludgeons. Whatever first concussion I may have had has now been massively impacted by this second. My vision doesn't sharpen. The images stay nebulous and cloudy like I'm looking at the world through eyes made of steam. There's a ringing in my ears so intense, it drowns out all other noises with its single, voluminous note. With my senses dulled, I feel around for my surroundings, using my fingers to grope my way to understanding our predicament.

Skin. Clothes. Hair. Bodies.

I clutch the stiff cloth of the cotton-fiber blends of the URE along with wet skin and puddles of an unnamed liquid. If I could bring the substance to my nose, I wonder if I'd be able to identify it. I shift to see if I can figure out what body parts I'm touching, but the person below me moves. Another figure moves and another. It's then that I feel that there's a body on top of me to.

I soon begin to register the pressure of their weight on me, around me, and under me.

We're a heap of bodies.

Sound returns slowly. Someone below me moans. Someone above me cries out in sobbing, uncontrollable breaths. Someone else joins her. These single sounds evolve into a chorus of screams and groans. The sea of noises make me wish I could go back to my monotone ringing. I can't concentrate when they deafen me with their agony.

Slowly, images sharpen. The world is dark except for one hole of light between the thigh of one person and the armpit of another. I can see the sky is dark gray and close by. It's the ceiling of the marketplace. Thank the Lady-we're still in ARC10. I try to sit up but find it impossible with the heaviness of the other citizens on me. Instead, I try to shift my head to the side to catch a glimpse of the full situation.

They've shoved us into large, transparent silos. The people are pressed up against the glass like too many fish in a tank. On the deck, red blood and purple blood mix together to make a color so vibrant, I can't look away. It's a beautiful color, like a sunset as it strikes the horizon. It's mesmerizing.

Through the slot in the side of the bodies where I'm able to peek through, I see who won the battle. It was obviously the cattle. They stand in groups, nursing their injuries. They point to certain funnels and prod at bodies within them. A few of the beasts are still carrying prisoners into the marketplace.

I watch as another creature takes the person in its arms, lifts it, and dumps it onto the top of a fresh pile. The white lab coat tangles around him.

Knuckles.

The next creature has a massive pustuled gourd slung over its shoulder and a prosthetic metal leg in another hand. Warren is dumped in, his prosthetic thrown into one of the burning barrels.

"Commander Lorn, what's happening?" whispers a voice from below my elbow. I feel terrible trying to shift to see better as I know that means there's going to be a bone or two digging into those below. Fortunately, there's no one digging anything directly into my abdomen. I curl inward as much as I can, giving my son a few more inches of protection.

The question comes from an innocent civilian. I see his pleading eyes as he requests information. "It looks like they're collecting us. I can't tell you much more. I don't know what this means."

I return to my observations. Blood smears the sides of one silo across from ours as a civilian presses their injured limb to the transparent walls. I try to move closer, but I can't as someone's leg is directly on my shoulder. I can breathe freely, but the suffocation from being in a confined space with the sweat, skin, and breath of the people encasing me shrivels the girth of my patience.

I can't stand this. I smell their sweat and blood. There's blond hair in my mouth. The face it belongs to cries out as someone tries to adjust around her. It's easier to focus on the outside so I don't lose my mind in here.

The silos are lined up like jars on a shelf. There's a nagging sensation that we're being preserved. Stored for later.

The bovine intruders parlay in their groaning language. They don't gesticulate but remain rigid, their heavy arms at their sides. When they are deep in conversation, I notice they sway back and forth in place.

"Commander?" someone else chimes in, "What do we do? How do we get out?"

I'm about to answer when two bulls standing to the left of us spin around to face our pile.

They knock their black, bony knuckles against the tube. We teeter in place. The people above and below shriek, screaming as if their lives were ending at that second.

When the screaming settles and the yaks return to their sentry positions, I whisper above, "VIPERs? VIPERs can you hear me?"

No response.

"Militia? Anyone?"

Nothing.

Laughter fills the marketplace. It's a loose sound, unmuffled mirth from someone not stuffed in a tube. His laughs are crazed, wheezy and hoarse. There's only one person I know who sounds like that. More voices join the first in his raucous glee.

"Sorry," I whisper to the body below mine. Clutching my belly to keep the people off of my son, I squirm around to get a better view. Civilians groan below my weight as I dig the heel of my hand into someone's face. My palm slips across his cheek from his fresh, wet tears.

O'Deea jerks with maniacal laughter. He throws his head back and screams in good humor. His lunatic-in-arms sidekick guffaws with him, her hand on his shoulder. The Crust, all of the original ten-minus-Martin Clemmens, congregate around their stupid leaders as they all lean forward, leering at the silos of human parts. They jeer and cackle, tapping the glass and clutching their sides from the hilarity.

"Why do they get to be free, Commander?" Someone questions like a petulant child at my right.

I purge the instinct to snap — to ask them why the hell they think I know. I'm more in the dark than they are. They're the ones who cheered when I was thrown into a cell.

All the Crust are corralled together. The huddle, losing their minds at the hysterical situation around them.

The bulls close in, something I've seen hunting dogs do when a lame cat wanders through the Rotunda. They circle the Crust.

One bull steps backward. It snorts once. Six other bulls raise their weapons and point at the Crust.

They shoot.

Civilians moan in horror. They scream, shriek and twist in their containers when each one of the Crust drops dead.

"Don't move!" I scream. They wriggle slowly, crushing my body under theirs. I curl tighter in myself to stop the elbow I feel inching closer to my abdomen. "Stop! Stop moving!"

They don't listen. Instead, they agonize louder as the Crust twitch through their last moments on the floor of the ARC10 marketplace. The elbow presses into my side. A foot crushes my jaw beneath it. Someone's back presses into my knees. Someone's hand clutches the hem of my t-shirt, exposing the skin on my expanded abdomen. I grit my teeth as two bodies capture my loose braid and pull it with them as they attempt to wiggle out an escape. The elbow digs in harder. I can't move my arm to shove it off my child.

A bull saunters over and raps at the container.

The people scream. I don't care anymore. They might be a lost cause, buy my son can still make it out of here alive. I push against the bodies, climbing out of the pile.

My hand reaches the top and crashes against an invisible barrier.

There's no escape.

Closing my eyes heightens the anxiety. I'm soaked in sweat and blood, most of it not even my own. I'm smashed from all sides, every inch of me touching someone else. The civilians press down. The urge to kick as hard as I can overtaks my muscles. My body acts of its own volition. It's desperate to be released.

The ship rumbles. The invading yaks don't even stumble when we make impact.

I open my eyes.

We've landed.