[word count: 2969]
The face of his coin is but an outline now thanks to my incessant rolling of it between my fingers over the years. I sit on the edge of the sleeping capsule as I wait for the effects of the drug to subside. One hundred and ninety-seven days the computer informs me I have been induced for.
I shower firstly, then I drink a flask of protein before finally suiting up at the control desk.
I authorise the computer to slide back the iron shutters of the windows, to which I see the Earth residing below me once again, thick in a white cloud covering. The Smartglass circles for me the general location of the distress beacon on the planet and advices upon landing at least twenty miles away from the area as not to distress the natives in the vicinity.
The memories resurface of that day aboard the fleet carrier: they resurface in the goose bumps that rise on my skin. I remember passing by Quarantine and waving quickly inside to the stolen children behind the protective glass, most of whom were still weeping into their grey issued hoodies or screaming against the panelling to be let out. One kid waved - little Zoyia of course - with her wide chubby smile and bright green eyes.
She told me back then - using her own tongue - that she was three, and that her guardians had left her while they hunted the alien-men that drop from the sky. And instead of Silas, she called me Skyless, which was funny. She is Zoe these days, turning six soon with already ambitions on becoming a specialist like me.
That day was classified as a 'success', if you would call tearing 10,000 innocent children from their parents while stealing this planet of its food and fuel resources. That day I watched the troops intoxicate themselves and celebrate one another's pride. And that was the day I was told squadron D had perished in a savage bloodbath against a native human colony.
They had to cage me a few times. I remember I gave the Sergeant a black eye for, as he put it, 'overreacting' to the death of Private Glover. I was stripped of my duties for six months upon returning back home, until they saw I was mentally fit again, and I became their puppet, brought back under The Empire's wing.
But one hundred and ninety-seven days ago - a close friend named Steven Alperton - informed me of an "off-the-record" signal recorded off of Ares; a SOS sent by squadron D.
It feels like only yesterday I almost shot Sergeant Travis through the temple. He confessed to me all his sins: he abandoned Jayson Glover and his team out of spite; a spite against his 'unruly behaviour' and his 'unnatural relationships' with the male sex, pacifically with me.
And on that day I fled in this ship with a course to Earth. Time sure flies when you're in a semi-comatose/paralytic state being fed through a straw.
Now I am awake, and I feel her hand on my shoulder.
"... Computer," I begin. "Prepare the ejector pod to land direct west of the location. I wish to be equipped with additional medical supplies and a short-range rifle alongside the standard survival pack."
"And a communicator." She says over my shoulder.
"... And a communicator."
Soon the ejector pod is opened for me to step inside. I wear a helmet along with extra padding for the bumpy ride down. It feels like I am in a coffin, my own coffin.
The steal casing seals around me, with a little square window for me to see out of while I hurtle to the ground. However, before I am shot into space, she comes to the glass, holding her stomach. I see her golden hair all pinned back and the dark purple of her tight suit and eyes. She feels more aged than I am, though her birthdate is only three months past my own. "It's a girl." She says, and then I am gone.
*
The Empire is in situ to an order that does not function towards the individual if that individual serves no greater purpose or is likely not to. For those who learn young that their life already holds no foreseeable prospect or potential to the core of The Empire, you are shipped in no other way than towards a military line of action. There is a constant demand for men to serve, as it is no secret that colonies are eager to become self-supporting states secular to The Empire and its rules.
I was eleven when I was sold by my guardians to The Empire, and fifteen when it was decided I had no brains to survive in The Empire’s heart, so I ‘joined’ the military. And at fifteen I encountered a guy just my age named Jayson Glover.
Super charming to all he met, and naturally an expert in anything he put his mind to. He was a true elite even at this age, and all the men both envied and admired him. And he was sure one of the lads: his antics were regularly the hot topic in camp, such as filling everyone’s boots with jelly, the fake spider in the bed trick, and his most notable achievement; kegging the pants of Sergeant Travis during assembly (his punishment was running thirty five laps of the field butt naked, which he rather enjoyed actually).
And, obviously, he was devastatingly handsome: sweet black hair, blue eyes and a contagious smile. His image changed for him one late night after a patrol of a deserted city. His downfall was at Spin the bottle. I was pretending to sleep as I heard their jaunts stretch on through the dark. The bottle landed on Jayson and I remember what was said so very clearly: “Tell us, Jayson. Breasts or ass?”
The men snigger to one another, though Jayson seems calm from his voice. “Neither.”
“Well ya have to pick one! Why not?” I remember their laughter, and the long silence that followed once he replied.
“Because I don’t like woman that way. I like guys. Duh.”
*
I trip on the dead burnt-out roots throughout the night. Occasionally the odd insect zips past my ear, or I hear a distant bird, like a crow but not a crow. I follow east using the light-glowing compass on my wrist, while keeping my rifle close to my chest. Soon I would reach the location – half a mile – and yet still no sign, no hint of a native, or anything.
The clouds won’t allow me the stars, or see the pulsing light of my ship, waiting upon my signal. I wish I was mature, or been mature then. I should have said bye – hugged her – but no matter now.
A twig snaps behind me. I freeze, and feel a cold sharp point dig into the back of my head.
The voice speaks in a native tongue, voice crackly and old. He tells me to turn around slowly and drop my weapon. I do as said, and remain calm. I know not to panic, and how I can use this to my advantage.
But the face is younger than I anticipated, even behind the red mud painted on him, and the deep claw scars that run vertically down his face. It is his eyes that get me: narrow but glassy. Soft skin, soft eyelids.
“Pax?” I say, slightly gasping. “Pax, is that you?”
His hands tremble as he lowers his bow, though his face remains hard and cold. “Leave.”
“Pax, it’s me, Silas. Please, I’ve come to rescue you, you and the others. Are you all alive? Where are they? Are they close?”
“Leave.” He repeats, his bow still loaded, and the knife on his belt shines slightly against the light of my compass.
“You do remember me, don’t you? Pax? Please, take me hostage. Anything but don’t make me leave without speaking to the others. I have a ship above that can take us home.”
My back is pushed into a tree, then his arrowhead comes to hover over my throat. “LEAVE! This be home now. This be home. You leave in ship. You leave Coda. Coda kill Silas. Burn bones. Eat bones. Silas leave. Silas must.”
I almost cry, seeing this version of Pax. The once humble, gentle boy. Now already so old, aged only nineteen. His anger is fear, a twisted and controlling fear. “I can save you, all of you. This place is no home. It’s not been a home for a long long time now. Take me to them, Patrick. I fear not for my life anymore. I beg. I beg of you.”
He lowers his bow – stares deep into my eyes – and turns away, leaving. “You fearless now. Let us see so. You not leave anymore, Silas Creat. Fear is waiting.”
*
After Jayson’s reputation as the coolest soldier in the Block 7 falls to tatters, a small alliance began to grow out of the rubble, forming mostly of me, Steven, Patrick, Megan, Jenkins, Rufus, Ham and himself.
At gym times he would walk up to me, surprisingly, and ask me the most bonkers of things: “Have you ever clipped a toe nail and one has gone flying into your eye?” “I hate caterpillars; they freak me right out. Do you hate caterpillars?” “How many berries do you think are actually in this pudding? And why do they call it ‘summer’ pudding: it looks dead and deflated?”
Eventually he broke my shell, so to speak, and I would respond: “I have never seen a tiger jump out of a twenty-story building and survive. You need mentally testing, my friend; you’re starting to worry me.” “I like pistachios. You like pistachios. We’re getting bloody pistachios.” “Oh hold still would you. There’s a caterpillar in your hair.”
It felt natural, never rushed. Some days we would be in the same company for at least sixteen hours, though it was never boring. There were always slapsies and knuckles, thumb wrestling, pretend wrestling (not like that!).
He kissed me the night we snuck whiskey out of the General’s fridge. We were sat behind Block 7. He told me to be quiet: apparently I was speaking too loud, even though he’s the one with the big gob. He said “This will shut you up,” and he pressed his lips to mine.
I wasn’t sure how I had felt about him, whether I liked him or not, whether I even actually like guys in that way or not. But I liked him. And from then on, I think I loved him.
*
Flames. Faces. The decrepit street – broken and warped – is empty for the two-man parade, though from the archways and windows, the faces lit by flames cry out with worn tongues and hurl hate and sin and all evil done. A stone hits my head, and another hits my arm. The natives cling to their bows; I know they wish me dead.
He leads me down an alleyway to a large rectangular pond, with the forest and town behind merged as one.
“Stay,” Patrick says as he walks along the side of the pond to the far end.
For a while he stands there, talking to himself, until I realise what I see before Pax is not a tree but a man, cloaked in moss and twigs. His hair is long and matted like dreads, and his beard reaches down to his bare chest. Patrick touches the man’s chest and speaks with pain. Soon their encounter is over, and Pax returns to me, looking at me colder than before, even in the light of the fire.
“Coda is he. He is Coda. Coda comes. Silas stay.” He comes close, and whispers harshly. “Silas see Coda, for Coda is fear. And you fearless now, yes? Coda very hungry. I hope… I hope.”
Patrick leaves in a storm back down the alley. My impulse is to follow him, though I know he is lost. My old friend has found home here and I cannot convince him. His hate cannot be reversed, nor can the damage.
I turn back, and the man across the pond stares at me.
I will never be fearless. The way this man is dressed, I can tell he is the king here. His stare lasts long before he moves with a limp around the pond. As he gets closer, he looks less tall. I cannot look at him directly, for his eyes unnerve me. He reaches closer. I look down to my shoes, then I feel and smell the wet, dirty, rotting breath hit my face and burn. His breathing is intense and loud. I feel his head getting closer to mine, before Coda speaks in a broken voice.
“The men you seek are dead. Disease and deep wounds – they were too weak to survive. You offend Segno by using the wrong name. Patrick is Segno now. Be grateful of his large heart. You will be given shelter for one night, though by morning you must leave or die. Your presence upsets my people... Your presence upsets me.”
Cold. I want to crumble but I am too afraid to show weakness in front of him. I want to scream at the waste of this all. I was too late. Too late to save them, too late for even Patrick. I keep my eyes to the ground.
“I… I am sorry for offending. I am up-most grateful for your hospitality, and-”
I go to unzip my bag but it falls off my side as he squeezes his hands around my face. He pushes hard, and I’m afraid he’s trying to crush my skull. He pulls his face closer to mine, his breath still enough to kill… but I find his eyes… his intense blue eyes.
“J……. Ja…. Jay-?”
“WHY!?” He spits onto my face, squeezing harder.
Scars. A scar across his forehead, and a burn on his right cheek. He’s nineteen, stuck in the body of a bear. His eyes are the only youth left, and his lips, and his soft hands.
“Jayson! I’m sorry! I’m sorry!” I shout, the tears hot and running from my eyes onto him. “I thought you were dead! They told me you were dead! What have these people done to you?”
He growls and throws me to the floor. “They saved me. They looked after me, gave me food and shelter. I fought for them. I killed for them and they let me be one of them. And now I protect them, as their leader, from people like you!”
“I don’t work for them anymore. I came on my own.”
“Liar!”
“I came on my own! Me and… Megan. And Steven was the one who found out you could be alive. We love you. I love you.”
I explain to him my life now, with Megan, and how we plan to set up a new life on Ares away from The Empire and risk of more trouble. I tell him of my breakdown, how they caged me, and Travis’s confession.
He helps me to my feet, and takes me to a dark room with a single mattress and a bucket of water. He tells me his story, how Jenkins, Rufus and Ham all died from infected wounds, and the bond that grew between himself and Patrick over the years. I don’t feel jealous over Pax, and nor do I get the impression Jayson is of Megan. It’s almost mutual.
But I hold his shoulder, and he holds my neck, forehead to forehead. I try for his lips but he pushes me away and leaves through the door. “I mean what I say. You must leave by morning. I cannot house you much longer than that… goodbye Silas.”
I am alone. I curl up on the cold mattress as the natives chant in the street and bang on drums all the way through the night. I shiver, I cry. I struggle with sleep until I am too exhausted to fight it anymore. In a twisted dream I feel someone’s fingers smooth through my hair. I don’t question whether they were real or not. I savour the moment, and by sun rise, the moment is gone.
*
I tell Megan all when I arrive at the clearing: about Jayson, Patrick, the tribe.
“Okay, the computer has your location.” She says over the communicator. “We’ll pick you up in twenty minutes so clear the landing area when we-”
“I love you.”
“… twenty… we’ll… Damn it! I will slap you silly! These are angry tears, angry I tell you!”
I laugh, then look over my shoulder to see someone walking out from the woods. “I’ll see you in twenty.”
I hang up and look at the freshly-shaven face coming towards me, brown-skin top, cape-less and dread-less. The scars still remain, but I see both Coda and Jayson, now as one.
“You didn’t shave for me, did you? The beard thing was growing on me… almost.”
He smiles – damn I love that smile – shaking his head. “Needed a change…” He looks down, now it’s him who can’t look me straight. “Say hi to Megan for me. We had are differences but… yeah, she’ll do you good.”
I walk up and kiss him on the cheek, pressing the coin into his right hand. “And Patrick/Segno will do you good too. This is your coin – your lucky coin. I only ask you look after yourself, okay?"
He pushes the coin back into my palm. His eyes are wet. “Keep it. It’s yours now. Keep it for me."
“… Always.”
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[A/N] I wrote this for the BoyxBoy competition co-hosted by @IAmHec. I think this one-shot has the potential to be expanded into something bigger (the rules for the competition 3000 words maximum) so if this gets any interest, I may write more set in this world, possibly more from Silas and Jayson early days?? Tell me what you think! And thanks for reading!