Gideon felt the metal bar of the safety railing ram into the small of her back before she got her breath back from the heavy, metal-plated, rocket-powered heel that had slammed into her chest just a moment before. In fact, she was so intent on trying to breathe again that she barely had a moment to be afraid as her feet left the cement of the flight deck and she tumbled, with the cinema-like quality of a pencil on the edge of a desk, right over the railing and into empty space.
Gideon choked as she went ass-over-teakettle, dropping her gun entirely (which she’d been instructed never to do) and letting out an undignified squawk (which she’d also been instructed never to do). The Silent Legions of Dread Hassal The Fifth were, as their name helpfully suggested, meant to arrive, conquer, and depart with the same creeping hush and inevitability of a rolling fog, their atrocities made all the more terrible by the fact that they did so in complete silence. The only one ever permitted to say a word was their dread master and his inner circle of vassals. This inner circle of vassals most certainly did not include private Gideon Graves on guard duty, and certainly not private Gideon Graves on guard duty with Dread Hassal The Fifth’s most hated enemy a mere five feet away.
But god dammit, with her feet pinwheeling aimlessly over the 200, no, 2,000-foot drop of an airlock shaft and her hands grasping for something, anything to stop her from plummeting into that 2,000-foot-embrace, Gideon thought she was entitled to an undignified squawk.
It was sheer luck that she felt one of her gloved hands collide with the vertical post of the railing. Though it gave her shoulder a painful tug to do so, she clung to it like a woman whose life fully depended on it. Which it did.
Her breathing loud and hot in her helmet and her lungs still struggling to get a full breath, Gideon caught a glimpse of her gun spinning away into the vast maw below her kicking feet, the edges rimmed with twisting cables and air ducts like the veins of some massive, gulping throat. The central shaft of her Dread Lord’s starship was a gumless, swallowing thing that had devoured worlds and would think nothing of one more idiot private.
Realizing that looking down had been a bad idea as she was gripped with a sudden vertigo, Gideon flung her other hand around the vertical post as well, gulping painful breaths. No, no, no, no, no—Her mind was a useless record-player on repeat, screaming out the most derivative song on the I Don’t Want to Die album.
But hey, the Silent Legions hadn’t conquered half of the known galaxy for nothing. In spite of the rapidly draining strength in her arms, Gideon closed her eyes and heaved, bringing to bear thousands of hours of training in camps as silent as a cemetery. Wrapping first one arm, then the other around the pole’s base, Gideon kicked her legs like a child until she managed to hook one over the edge of the flight deck, using it to drag herself from the mouth of the abyss. She rolled under the lower bar of the railing and lay there, chest heaving, her helmet sticky against her skull and with one hand still grasping the bar in case the deck decided, on a whim, to boot her off again.
It was only then that Gideon bothered to roll vaguely onto her side to see what she’d missed during her near-death experience. Hauling herself up with the aid of her best friend the guardrail, she peered through her visor to find that of her contingent stationed along the flight deck, there was now one remaining. The other six littered the ground like so many abandoned action figures once a kid got an Xbox console for Christmas, their dull gray body armor shattered and scorched. Otherwise, her last remaining comrade-in-arms was being held aloft by the collar by a dark-skinned woman in a long brown trench coat.
The woman’s mass of tightly-coiled black hair was pulled back beneath a pair of gleaming brass goggles the same color as the rocket boots on her feet. Her free arm was wound up in readiness for a swift introduction of her gauntleted fist to her captive’s face. And both the woman and her captive, for some reason, were staring at Gideon.
The angry red blare of a klaxon echoed from the hall at the other end of the flight deck, scarlet warning lights making garish shadows of them all. Gideon froze, unsure if she should be going for a weapon (what weapon?) or diving for Dread Hassal the Fifth’s greatest enemy (please, no).
“Did you just scream ‘shit’?” asked Dread Hassal the Fifth’s greatest enemy. Gideon blanched. Well, fuck. There may have been a ‘shit’ mixed in with her undignified squawk, but she hadn’t really been paying attention. How mortifying. Eight years of solemn silence, broken with an unintentional ‘shit.’
“Is there—You’re all—human?” Dread Hassal the Fifth’s greatest enemy seemed to be processing a great deal in a very short amount of time. Gideon didn’t move, watching as the dark woman’s face shifted rapidly from the heat of battle into dawning calculation. “No, no, that’s impossible—” she muttered, abruptly smashing her fist into her captive’s helmet with a metallic crunch, causing him to go limp and drop the knife he’d slowly been inching towards her throat. Gideon winced at the sound, immediately fumbling for her knife (right, that weapon).
Her enemy dropped the incognizant guard and advanced on Gideon, her boots releasing tiny gouts of steam as they hammered across the flight deck. Gideon tried to retreat to get herself some space and found the guardrail at her back once again (dammit, guardrail). She drew her knife and ducked low, aiming to plunge the blade into the other woman’s ribcage. Her weapon was knocked away with an insultingly casual swipe of a gauntleted hand, the knife spinning away across the cement (shit).
Gideon made to dive to the side, but her arm was caught in a literal iron grip and twisted backwards, the dark-skinned woman expertly spinning her around and to her knees. Gideon’s shoulder gave one last, piteous scream before popping out of its socket, and she bowed her head as she swallowed a scream of her own (definitely not allowed).
Was that tears or just sweat running down her face? Hell if she knew, Gideon thought, nearly delirious. Maybe she should just dive for the shaft again, then at least she’d have time to watch her stupid life flash before her—
Her arm was released, and Gideon sagged to the flight deck. (What?)But before she could get over her own surprise, a heavy hand gripped her injured shoulder (oh, shit), and she was unceremoniously rolled to face Dread Hassal the Fifth’s greatest enemy. She loomed above Gideon, her face also streaked with sweat and so close that Gideon could now see a necklace dangling over a Kevlar chest plate beneath the trench coat, a copper trinket winking out at her. She reached out towards Gideon, and Gideon closed her eyes, ready for the concussion she was about to get—and felt her helmet catch against her ears as it slid from her head.
Gideon opened her eyes and found herself staring straight into a gaze as black and sparkling as the void beyond the hull. There was a heavy, 10-ton clunk to her right. A warm touch, the fingers tipped with hardened callouses, brushed the scars along Gideon’s cheekbone, the eyes travelling over her bare scalp. “Are you all like this?” breathed Dread Hassal the Fifth’s greatest enemy.
Feeling stupid as well as mute, Gideon nodded. The eyes narrowed. “Do you want to be?”
Gideon struggled internally. Yes? No? Whatever kept her alive the longest?
The eyes watched her for a moment longer, then the other woman abruptly stood. “I’m not going to hurt you,” announced Dread Hassal the Fifth’s greatest enemy. “There’s a drop ship taking captives five levels down. Ditch your weapons, and they’ll take you, too.” The woman knelt to scoop up her brassy gauntlet, sliding her long, surprisingly gentle fingers back into it. “Just tell them Keelah said ok.”
Gideon scrambled back to her feet, one hand clutching her dangling shoulder. Dread Hassal the Fifth’s greatest enemy turned to leave, then smacked herself on the forehead with a clink from her gauntlet. “Wait! Stupid, you don’t talk—well, mostly.” Gideon felt her face begin to color and was grateful the trench-coated woman was otherwise occupied. “Um, here—” Dread Hassal the Fifth’s greatest enemy fumbled with something at her neck, eventually dragging a leather chord with the small, copper token around her waves of hair and proffering it to Gideon. Gideon wondered how those huge, fuck-all robot hands had managed the dexterity to grab the jewelry, but numbly took it anyway. “Safe passage,” the dark-skinned woman nodded.
“Now, if you don’t mind—” Dread Hassal the Fifth’s greatest enemy turned away, her profile limned in strobing red light. “—I’m going to go have a talk with your boss.” She strode away, utterly confident that Gideon would do nothing to her fully-presented back. To be fair, she was right. She left a dumbfounded Gideon standing on the catwalk, watching her long coat flare as she broke into a run towards the passage Gideon was supposed to be guarding.
Gideon wavered. Oh, she was going to be so fired for this. Most likely fired from her corporeal body, everlasting soul and unabridged memory, too. She looked down at the copper token in her hand.
(Shit.) She wrapped her sweaty, wiry fingers around it. She’d already fallen once today. Hell, why not take the long way down?
It wasn’t difficult to use the inner corner of the guardrail to pop her shoulder back into place (thanks, guardrail). Nor was it difficult to pick up one of the guns dropped by one of her erstwhile comrades. Squaring her shoulders, Gideon charged after Keelah, leaving her helmet behind.
The air on her bare scalp felt good. Maybe she’d keep it that way.
