A brief look inside The Iliad II

     The Iliad II wasn't a grand ship. A simple freighter used primarily for transport. It was dull and Spartan, lacking any real frills. Garret drifted in the dark, weightless bridge. The control consoles were dead. The Marshal hammered on three of them fruitlessly. Garret left the remaining one untouched, assuming it as lifeless and useless as the rest. He drifted towards the rear of the bridge, guided by chrome hand bars towards the Living pod. He paused at the bright, white door to check his pistol. It was secure in the shoulder holster. With a grunt he pulled the door and floated through. Simulated gravity grabbed him as soon as Garrett drifted from the sterile, weightless bridge into the Living Pod. The where the crew would've lived, he reminded himself. Immediately he felt the familiar draw of force pushing him to the floor. Grey steel greeted his boots with a thunk that echoed eerily in the empty Living Pod. Garret pulled his pistol from the shoulder holster. Its cold weight felt comforting in his hand. This ship, the Iliad II, was strange, though he'd been on ships like it. A sign nearby depicted a stick figure climbing stairs. The black symbol of a man marched unarmed up. Below the pictograph the letters F2 and an arrow pointed to his left. Garret went right. A few twists of the hallway brought him into a large, open lounge area. Here, the steel walkway turned to green carpet. Garret looked up instinctively. Above his head, across the length of the Living Pod the same green carpet stared back. The lounge stretched circular up and around, encasing the inhabitants in a calm, softness that Garret found unnerving. At the center of the cylinder, a ball floated, caught outside the artificial gravity. Garret imaged crew members having bets about lobbing objects across the space, trying to encourage them to get stuck in the weightless space above their heads. Furniture here was mostly spare. A few benches that mimicked the old wooden pews of a church lined up on the wall (floor) to his right. In front of him, a cupboard was securely shut, also in mock wood. Garret supposed that vainer served to remind deep-space travelers of more terrestrial times. A few extra bits of furnishings, a chair and a great couch offered seating. But Garret was focused on the ladder in front (and slightly left) of him. It ran up the far end of the lounge towards the center on the Living Pod, to an access door that would lead him to the engines of this space freighter. Suddenly, Pain split through Garret's side. Another bolt pitched violently through his chest. The shots came from two directions. Together, they forced him down –out- to the floor. The Marshal fell forward to one knee. His hand flashed out gripping the spongy carpet to stop his fall. The carpet was marred with the travel of hundreds of foot falls. In its grains Garret was reminded him of something - of somewhen. A shower of bullet hummed angrily above his head, crashing like hornets into to pews behind him. Garret saw none of this. Hot blood soaked into the green fuzz. His. Through the haze of gunsmoke the bright droplets bloomed. The worn carpeting rushed out. Before him a lush field spread green deep in the throes of summer. 
 

     As a boy he once stood in the same field. It was a planet Garret thought he'd never see again. Yet, he stood there now. Wind pulled at him rudely rolling across the field of -were they poppies?- red flowers. It carried the fragrance of summer and nectar. To the south a dark line of trees, an ancient forest, beckoned. The trees waved soft branches offering a delightful rest at the base of their trunks. Promises of easy life and whispers of pleasures lifted to his ears. The great red blossoms swayed in the afternoon breeze. Something else drifted in the wind. Something he hadn't noticed as a boy but remembered always. Smoke. And a tinge of salt. Like a roast dripping into the fire. It was the smell of burning flesh. He found out later it was the dreadful final memory of his father. Garret turned, whirling on his heels. Behind him those men -those Bastards- appeared. Just as he remembered. Only this time Garret's hand flashed to his left should where his Widow-maker waited in loyally in it's plain leather holster. To his fright, the pistol was absent. Garret stumbled back. Fear -was that the feeling?- squeezed his heart. Too long, the thought raced at the back of his mind, since I left fear. Southward the trees called to him. Louder now. The breeze smelled sweeter too not just inviting him to rest, to safety, but demanding it. They were only two. He could easily out run them, hide in the forest. Maybe even escape to the south where bliss was promised. He thought it a good plan. Gerald turned to flee. The green pasture spread out, flowers bright spots in the fading light.


     NO! A voice careened through his skull like a bullet. CAN'T REST, YET! The boy changed, then. The field dulled, its light sapped away. From green strains of grass to grey striations in carpet flecked with blood. STAND! The voice cried, FOR THE SAKE OF YOUR FATHER! Garret's gun was already in his fist -no need to draw. The hilt burned hot, wet with the stains of his wounds. A cruel life taught him well. The pistol blazed, his finger flicked the trigger until the cylinder clapped empty. The lounge fell silent again. Even the echoes of falling bodies held their breath. The marshal stood, his empty gun scanning the Living Pod for more blood to be had. None. He teetered. Then fell.