Four more guards filed into the small room. While Mahoney and Briggs stayed back, their weapons now ready and trained at Stacia’s head, the others carefully undid the magnetic locks that had been holding her to the wall. She would have taken this moment to stretch if she didn’t think one of them might interpret that as a sign of aggression and blow her head off. Instead, she stood quiet and still while a medical doctor came in, double-checked her vitals, and declared her fit for the pod. The guards marched her across the room and down a short corridor into a hanger of sorts. There were spots for pods along the walls on both sides, but only one of the berths was occupied. The pod in question didn’t look any different from the others she’d used hundreds of times before, although this one would be sending her into a situation quite different than active combat. It looked like a giant metal thorn, the sharp end pointed down at the hatch that would open up underneath it. A door was open in the front, revealing the dingy white interior of its compression couch. In most of the other pods Stacia had used, they were brand new, state of the art. This one looked several generations behind, the white interior turned a grayish brown in some parts by what was likely old sweat and vomit, maybe other body fluids if she was unlucky. There was no need to waste a new pod for this trip, after all, considering the Galactic Marines were not going to ever get this one back. Once they shot it out from the bottom of the ship, it would be lost to them forever.
Stacia sat down in the compression couch and held her arms out to the sides again so the guards could once again magnetically lock her into place. One of the guards came forward and recited what was probably a memorized script, instructing her that the locks would disengage when the pod reached the outer atmosphere that the pod would fly itself, but she would be able to access limited control in the event of an emergency. Stacia already knew from watching drops by her fellow marines that this last part was completely wrong. If something went haywire with the pod, no attempt from the occupant could save it. It would become an uncontrolled, flaming meteor blasting toward the planet below at a velocity that would likely kill the passenger even before the impact.
“Do you have any last requests?” the guard asked once he was finished with his spiel.
“Nothing that you’ll be able to fulfill,” Stacia said. “I have a few words for the executioner, though.”
The guard frowned at the use of the word “executioner.” The armed forces didn’t like that term for this particular fate, whether it was more or less accurate or not. It was known that one in ten people didn’t survive this initial trip. And once they were on the surface, well, most people didn’t even want to consider what it was like down there.
The guards left the room, even Mahoney and Briggs, but Stacia wasn’t alone for long. Half a minute after they left, Morrison came in. To be honest, Stacia wasn’t even sure what rank Morrison was supposed to be, nor what branch of the service he was supposed to belong to. It didn’t really matter. He had one job and one job alone, a job that no one else wanted to take, so therefore everyone else treated him with the same level of respect they’d give to a general. He walked like he had a stick up his rectum, and despite his age, the lack of lines on his face told everyone just how rarely he smiled, or even frowned. He was all business, always.
Morrison was in command of this ship. He was the executioner.
“Stacia X-79,” he said, so professional that he didn’t even stumble over her unusual name like everyone else always did. “You were found guilty of attempted murder of a commanding officer. Do you have anything else you wish to officially log for the record on the matter?”
“Yeah, I’m ashamed of myself.”
This seemed to surprise Morrison. “Oh?”
“Uh-huh. There’s no excuse for her to still be alive. I should have been a better shot.”
Morrison’s surprise vanished. “You know, I’ve lost count of how many times I’ve done this. There are generally three types of responses when I ask that question. The first and most common is just plain silence. The marine in question already said everything they needed to say at their court-martial. Then there’s the ones like you, defiant and sometimes acting like a smart ass. There are very few of the third type, who actually act remorseful. Some of these last ones even beg for mercy.”
“Shameful,” Stacia said. “That kind of thing embarrasses the Galactic Marines.”
“It’s funny that you think begging is a worse thing to do than opening fire on a superior, but for what it’s worth, I agree. Those that cry and beg probably don’t last long down there. I don’t usually bother offering them any advice. It would be wasted on them.”
“What kind of advice could you possibly give?” Stacia asked.
“Certain higher ups are not as lacking knowledge as they like to pretend about that place. They have ways of getting information. They know the basic structure of how things work down there. And from that, I can say this: stay away from anyone else. Go off on your own. Whoever said ‘hell is other people’ was talking about this planet right below us.”
“Why would you give me advice?” Stacia asked.
“Force of habit, mostly. Because honestly, I hope you get slaughtered down there within your first twenty minutes. General Borealis is a friend of mine. I saw what you did to her. She didn’t deserve that.”
“You don’t know her like I do. No one does. And no one would listen.”
“Whatever crap-ass reason you give to justify your actions, I don’t care. She’s been through enough, and this was only the icing on the cake. So I hope you are ripped apart by something or someone down there.”
“I do have one last request. A message, if you will.”
Morrison nodded. “Something you’d like to pass along to your mothers, I’m assuming.”
Stacia felt what little actual skin she had left prickle. “No. Don’t say anything to them. They have nothing to do with this.”
“Who’s the message for, then?”
“Borealis. You tell her, when she gets out of the hospital…” Stacia paused for effect and smiled. “That she’ll get exactly what she deserves for what she did. By the end of the week, her son will be dead at my hand.”
For the first time ever, she saw Morrison recoil in shock. He regained his composure quickly, though, and after a few seconds, it was as though she hadn’t said anything at all.
“Are you finished?” he asked.
“Yes.”
“Then let’s make this official.” He cleared his throat and then spoke louder, making sure that the microphones in the room picked up his every word and broadcast them throughout the ship. “Stacia X-79. It is my duty as the commander of this vessel to declare you dishonorably discharged from the Galactic Marines. As it is unsafe to allow you back into the general population, you are sentenced to life on the planet Leviathan, however short that life might be. May whatever gods you believe in have mercy on your soul.”
“Do you really have to say that every time you do this?” Stacia asked. “Sounds tedious.”
“Yes. Yes it is,” Morrison said.
The doors of the pod shut and hissed with an airtight seal. Then the pod dropped through a hole in the floor into a launch tube, before being shot out the bottom of the ship at a hundred miles an hour for the planet Leviathan.
Chapter 2
Bumpy Road Home
Stacia had approximately five to ten minutes to contemplate the direction her life had taken before the pod hit the ground, at which point either its retro thrusters would fire and slow it enough for her to survive (at least long enough to get out), or its emergency braking would fail and she would become a splatter of gore and twisted metal at the bottom of a smoking crater. Not exactly the best and easiest time to get introspective, but hey, she was used to working with what little she had.