“Then it doesn’t matter, does it? Let me kill him. One last good thing before we die. Then we’ll set the auto-destruct…go out in a blaze of glory. Better than starving to death.”
Captain Tyler has no response to that.
The two men stand before the open CryoPod now, looking at Pelops.
“Captain…” Pelops says, “you know as well as I do—”
“Shut up, freak!” Sgt. Harmon’s fist slams into his gut. The air rushes from his lungs, along with the words he failed to utter.
Harmon lifts a service pistol to Pelops’ chin, the barrel digging into his jawbone.
“All of us may have to die,” Harmon tells him, “but you’re going first you cannibal fu—”
Thud.
A flash of silver above his head, a meaty sound, and Harmon goes down. Captain Tyler stands over him with the wrench in his hand. Its round end drips dark blood like syrup, and a clot of hair and skin hangs there.
Tyler drops the wrench and peels the coils of wire away from Pelops’ wrists and ankles.
The captain is silent for awhile as Pelops rubs his limbs to get the circulation flowing again. Tyler stares at his fallen officer, leans against the wall. Tired. Ready to accept his fate.
“You did the right thing doctor,” says Tyler. His sunken eyes turn toward Pelops. They are as black and glittering as the void. “The famine on Dantus could kill tens of thousands. This mission has to succeed.”
Pelops nods. His stomach growls. He is ravenous.
“Can you still make it work?” asks Tyler.
Pelops stares down at the unconscious soldier. Makes a few mental calculations. Rubs his sore temple.
“Yes,” he says. “With your help, the mission will still succeed.”
Tyler helps Pelops carry Harmon into the infirmary.
Pelops carefully rations out pieces of Harmon over the next few weeks. Tyler holds out for sixteen days but eventually joins him for a slight meal. Pelops insists.
“It’s imperative to this mission that you stay alive captain,” he says. “Just a little while longer.”
Tyler won’t go near the infirmary. The blow to Harmon’s head inflicted some kind of brain damage, so he remains comatose as he’s carved to bits day after day. Just as well. No screams to deal with, but still Tyler takes it hard. He sits on the bridge in his chair most days…staring at the red star growing ever brighter directly ahead.
Pelops thought the captain would dismantle the bone god…but Tyler doesn’t seem to mind it. Or perhaps he’s frightened of it. Too frightened of its power to risk desecrating it. He must know that it, not him, now rules the Goya.
Harmon would have lasted longer if Pelops did not share him with Tyler. However, Tyler ate so very little…only enough to keep himself alive for another month. Finally, when the last of Harmon has been consumed and his bones have been added to the god’s intricate frame, Tyler comes to Pelops. A broken man, emaciated, begging to be put out of his misery.
“It’s all my fault,” Tyler tells him, weeping. Pelops listens. “It was my responsibility to make sure we had extra emergency kits. I didn’t do it.”
Pelops leads him into the infirmary.
Tyler babbles, weeping. “Trying to maximize profits…cut corners…it should have been a simple trip. I did it to save money, Pelops. I killed us all for money…”
“Not all of us, Captain,” says Pelops.
Tyler nods, wipes his swollen eyes. He must be thinking of those starving families on Dantus now.
“I am sorry there is no more anesthetic for this Captain.”
“Just do it,” says Tyler. He unholsters his pistol, lays it on a nearby counter. “Get it over with. Kill me. For Dantus…for all those children. Kill me now…”
“If you wouldn’t mind lying on the table first,” says Pelops. Tyler complies.
Pelops straps him down securely and prepares the laser scalpel.
“What are you doing?” asks Tyler. “One shot between the eyes will do it. Make it quick, Pelops.”
Pelops hesitates.
It seems the captain has misunderstood his role here.
“We’ve still got over a month of travel time, sir…” Pelops explains. “If I kill you now, I’m afraid you’ll spoil before we reach Dantus.”
Tyler’s shock registers as a moment of silence. “No,” he says, shaking his head. “No, you can eat for two or three weeks, and the last few days you can go without. You’ll be fine…as soon as you touch down you’ll have food on Dantus. You don’t need me to last that long, Pelops!”
“I’m sorry, Captain,” says Pelops. “But I don’t like to go hungry.”
He ignores the captain’s screaming and writhing as he puts the gag on him. Same old reaction. Pulling against the restraints, wearing the throat raw with grunts and smothered screams.
“It’s for the mission,” Pelops reminds him.
He starts with the legs, as usual.
Tyler, once a strong and vital man, lasts nearly three weeks on the table.
In the end, with the last few scraps of Tyler gone, Pelops still has six days left to starve.
The red star swells brighter than ever among the starfields in the viewport.
Pelops sits in the captain’s chair and stares into the shimmering void.
Everything from plants to mammals is fueled by the light of stars. Sunlight fuels photosynthesis, which feeds the plants that in turn feed the animals we eat on earth. Photons and atoms being constantly recycled and reinvented, a molecular dance of destruction and creation that never ends. Everything consumes and is consumed.
We are all made of starlight.
Brilliant starlight, pulsing bright as blood inside us.
It’s all energy…and energy is neither created nor destroyed.
His stomach growls.
In the glow of a red sun, the Goya touches down atop a broad plateau littered with wrecked vehicles and rusting machines. Pelops stumbles from the open hatch into the ruddy glow. He walks with a single crutch made of bones. His right leg is missing below the knee, a fresh tourniquet wrapped tight about the stump.
He held out for two difficult days before the hunger won its final victory.
Still, he has made it to this place. A nice prosthetic limb waits in his future.
He blinks in the harsh glow of infrared daylight and stares across the plateau at the colonial city.
He stumbles through the wreckage toward the dilapidated walls. The wind hurls black sand against him, raking like claws across his flight suit and his exposed cheeks, coating his beard with dirt.
Where is everyone?
There should be a welcoming party to greet him. They’ve waited seven years.
The famine won here, he realizes. I’m too late.
He walks through dried fields where crops have died in geometrical rows. Now only the fossilized stubs of cornstalks rear from the smothering sand.
He sees the distant towers more clearly now. Skeletal and stark they stand against the purple sky. He walks with his crutch among the hulks of dead machines, until the sun sinks below the flat horizon. The ruined city looms before him. No signs of life.
Hunger did this. Is there anyone left at all?
He calls out. His voice echoes between crumbling walls, along vacant streets.
The bleak stars emerge to glimmer in the night sky.
We are all made of starlight.
Finally a group of thin shadows emerges from a ramshackle hut near a fallen tower.
Survivors. They converge upon him like wary dogs trailing rags.
He sees their young faces, smudged with dirt and lean as wolves.
They smile, showing rotted teeth. He waves.
They carry sharp knives that gleam in the twilight.
“Wait!” he says. “My name is Pelops — from the earth ship Goya. I’ve brought what you need.”