Fate's A Bitch

[HemlockGrey]

Pluto was not known for its congenial atmosphere but Bekkaville City was a trashy slum even by Plutonian standards. Like everywhere else on the planet, the rain never stopped; occasionally it would stutter or stumble, only to pick up in an hour's time. The distant sun never broke through the gloomy, choking clouds, never warmed the damp, misty air.
The narrow twisting streets and alleys of Bekkaville city were packed with people pressing in every direction, trudging through the dreary slums and polluted city quarters to their ramshackle apartments or decaying shops. The whole of the city was composed of unsteady steel tenements, rusty and low to the ground, jammed wall-to-wall in an endless disorganized tangle that stretched out to the far horizons

In one dissolute section of the city stood a network of these buildings, connected by makeshift ramps and walkways. It appeared, to the casual observer, to be exactly the same as the rest of the city, but those who looked carefully would notice chain link fences, discreetly posted guards, a distinct lack of pedestrian traffic, and other things which indicated that there was something unique about this particular area of the city.
A lone woman darted from roof to roof atop the compound, her body pressed against the flat rooftops. She wormed her way forward, blinking away the rain that fell into her eyes. She was dressed in a simple exercise outfit which, like much of her body, was now streaked with grime and rust. Her black hair was matted and tangled, her muscles ached and sweat mixed with rainwater as it rolled down the sides of her face but her deep green eyes burned with the fire of obsessive determination.

In her left hand she held a large, jagged knife, and a pistol was strapped to her waist. She crept silently atop the compound until she came to a place where the compound opened up into a central courtyard, full of weeds, overgrown walkways and decrepit furnishings. She paused at the edge of one of the surrounding buildings. When she saw the scene below her she gripped her knife a little bit harder and her heart beat a little bit faster.

It was an unusual scene, to say the least, and none of the participants appeared to be enjoying it. She saw five people stood in the courtyard; two young men stood side-by-side by the building on her left. They were obviously cooperating and spoke to each other in low whispers. Near the building to her right was another young man, who appeared to be muttering a prayer to himself. On the far side of the courtyard was a young woman, and though she was clearly shouting her words were lost to the roar of the raindrops pounding against the metal rooftops. But the eye of the woman on the rooftop was drawn immediately to the man standing directly in front of her. He was middle-aged, with streaks of gray clearly visible in his hair.

These five people were all pointing large and lethal-looking weapons at each other, their field of fire constantly shifting to cover each individual. The woman on the rooftop was focused solely on the man in front of her. Hurtling herself off the building she landed gracefully behind him and leapt forward, burying her knife to the hilt in his shoulders in a moment of pure ecstasy. The rest of the assembly was utterly baffled; no one fired a shot.
For a brief moment, the only noise was the pounding of the rain.

***

Edmund Clairebourne considered himself a martyr. For what cause he had been martyred was not entirely clear, but he could conceive of no other explanation for his sudden and completely undeserved death.
Well, it had not been a physical death, but it had killed his future all the same. His career was effectively ended, his glorious burning ambitions quenched. He was condemned, doomed to live out the rest of his days as the Colonial Administrator-General of Verak Nol, living an austere life of quiet solitude and silent smoldering indignation.

True, to be an Administrator-General in the Colonial Office branch of the Foreign Service was under ordinary conditions an extraordinarily distinguished post. To be on the frontiers of the Terran Union, pacifying savage natives, outmaneuvering foreign power, absorbing recalcitrant Exiles into the fold and civilizing the furthest reaches of known space was the dream of virtually every Terran in the Colonial Office and only a select few were elevated to its most honorable position.

But Verak Nol was a blighted colony, home to the refuse and waste of the Colonial Office. It was populated by lazy, drunken natives who labored all year in the mines and shiftless, petty Exiles crooks and thieves. It was were the most extraordinarily incompetent few were sent to live out their careers in dignified disgrace.

Edmund silently cursed the Foreign Office as he shuffled onto the dimly lit shuttle which would take him to his orbiting interstellar transport. They had not even booked him first class; of course, to the ships that stopped in the rudimentary Bekkaville City spaceport “first class” meant a seat relatively free of rust and mold.

A haggard stewardess directed Edmund to his seat in the back of the shuttle. As he squeezed past an eclectic and positively filthy mix of aliens, Exiles, and lower class Terrans he was certain he could feel his finely tailored clothes plummeting in value.

He found his cramped seat and stowed his briefcase beneath it (his luggage was no doubt being either mishandled or stolen at that very moment). On his immediate right sat a man, his face partially hidden in the dim light. Though the shuttle was cold, he was lightly dressed, and did not shiver; his mere presence seemed to absorb light, drowning him in shadow. The other passengers gave him a wide berth, for no other reason than it seemed like a wise thing to do. He did not appear to be dangerous, or physically powerful, but nonetheless he seemed to exude an unsettling aura. Edmund did not consider any of this. All he noticed was that the man's clothes, while not terribly expensive, were fashionable enough that, bored to tears as he was (and slightly drunk on the local liquor), he was willing to give him a shot at idle conversation.

“So. Where are you off to?” he asked. There was no reply. Edmund waited for a few moments, and then asked, a little more insistently, “So. Where are you off to?”. Still, silence. Edmund was growing annoyed. “Look, mate, can you not hear me? Where are you off to, then?” Utter silence. Edmund turned away. “Fucking Exiles...” he muttered under his breath.

“No.” The chest of the formerly silent man convulsed as he spoke; his raspy voice reminded Edmund of metal grating across concrete.

“I'm sorry?” he said.

“I am not an Exile.”

“What? Of course you're an Exile. Your absurd accent gives that away.
Clearly you can't be Terran...I'd say...from the Consortium, likely a royalist colony...”

“Are you certain?”

“Ah! It's so obvious! I'd bet my life on it.”

“That would be an...unwise gamble. What if I were to take you up on it?”

“...ah! What's this? You're not from the Consortium?”

“Not hardly.”

“Hm! Well, even the brightest minds sometimes stumble. Where do you
hail from?”

“Muriad.”

“Oh, I've been there. Ghastly place, what with all the Kinthai strutting about and looking menacing...but I was right all along, now wasn't I? You are an Exile!”

“No. I am a Murian.”

“Nonsense. You're a bloody human, aren't you? And not a Terran, either. Hence, Exile.” At this the other man turned towards Edmund, bringing his face into the light. Edmund recoiled for he saw that it was horribly burnt on one side, the flesh twisted and waxy. The other side was mostly intact, but the disfigurement continued down the man's neck and shirt. His arms were both covered in old scar tissue and one of his hands was blackened, the flesh of his fingers eviscerated.

Edmund was not particularly horrified at the injuries; during his service in the Office he had seen much worse, but again he cursed the Office for indirectly putting him in such close proximity to such grotesqueness.

“I am not an Exile, nor have I ever been one. I would suggest you keep that in mind.”

Edmund refused to let this man get the better of him. “You could do a decent impression of a circus freak, though.” The man snorted.

“That is true,” he said, examining the marks upon his arms, “But I prefer my chosen profession.”

“And what exactly is that?”

“I operate.”

“So you're a doctor, then?”

“Not quite.”

“Ah...” Edmund was getting the feeling that perhaps it was time to cut off the conversation. The scarred man was smiling ever so slightly- not a pleasant sight.

“And what is your profession?” asked the man.

“Oh, well...I...I am the Administrator-General of the Verak Nol Colony. It is a very prestigious position. Upon my arrival the entire administration of the colony will be my responsibility; a heavy burden, but one I shoulder gladly, to spread further out into the stars the civilizing light of the Terran Union.” Edmund has picked up that last bit from a newsreel; he quite liked the sound of it.

“Mmm...you are of course a liar.” At this, Edmund sputtered. But the other man did not seem to notice. “I know of Verak Nol; it is a barren wasteland, a depository of galactic refuse. Whether or not you are the Administrator-General is irrelevent...you are refuse, being cast upon the world as a punishment for whatever sins you have committed in life. Tell me, how have you sinned?”

Brilliant, thought Edmund, and a bloody Catholic as well.
“Are you asking me for a confession?” he asked.
“Confession implies repentance. I do not ask from others what I do not do myself.”

“Is that right? And what have you done, then? In fact, how did you come by those handsome scars of yours? Tripped over a burning building? Catastrophic accident with a pizza and a vat of grease?” Edmund could see the muscles in the other man's face tense up, but he answered all the same.

“An...accident...in my youth. Destroyed my life...killed my family.”

“Ah...well then. Sounds rather nasty. Pity about your family.”

“Not particularly.”

“So you care to elaborate? We still have what, three hours till lift-off? Could do with a bit of a story.”

“I believe you are forgetting something...you were telling me how you came to be cast off into the garbage pile of the Union.”

“What? That? Bunch of bureaucratic bullshit! It was hardly my fault, what happened. Not my fault at all. Most I did was make a few pointed comments; it was my superiors who did all the really incriminating work. But when the natives have stopped rioting, the dead have been counted, and the flames extinguished...well, then somebody's got to take a fall, right? And God forbid it be someone with...credentials! No, it all gets pinned on some rising star, someone felt to be a threat to the status quo. I'm convinced there wasn't half as much rioting as they said there was, you hardly believe what you see on the newsreels, you know...”

“Was there much death?”

“Oh, quite a bit, but like I said, I doubt there was half as much as-”

“What is your name?”

“What? My name? Edmund. Edmund Clairebourne. And what the devil is yours?”

“Drake. Martin Drake.”

“Odd, that's a familiar name, somehow...what the devil is that sound?”

Moments later the world around the two men exploded into fire and noise.

[darthdavid]

I like it so far. Will there be more?