Young Writers Society

Molon Labe soared through the hole in the cavern roof, blasting the Federation troops to the ground as her engines roared to full power. Their CO heaved himself to his feet, despite his injured leg. He fired one final shot at Molon Labe before his leg gave out again and he crumpled back into the dust, clutching the joint between his pelvis and leg. He watched the bright, blue light of Molon Labe's engines grow smaller and smaller in the sky before his vision went black.

*****

The CO's eyes squinted open to the sight of whitish, transparent plastic about six feet above him. He felt cool cloth sheets over him and a soft cotton pillow beneath his head. He turned his head to the right and found a big smile greeting him. 

"How are you, son?" asked the smile.

"Fine, I suppose. Just a shot to the leg, sir," said the officer, banking on the man who owned that smile being a superior officer.

"Good to know you still retain your manners after a firefight," said the man. "What's your name son?" he asked.

"Corporal Richard Stavers, sir," responded the officer in the bed. 

"Corporal, eh?" said the officer. "Well it just so happens that I'm a major. Major Joseph R. Ranforth to be exact." At the name, Stavers sat up straighter in his bed, bringing his left hand to his forehead with the palm facing out.

"At ease, Coporal Stavers," said Ranforth, waving a hand at him. "I came here to tell you that you're not just receiving bad news today."

"Why's that, sir?"

"Well, while the operation here may have been a little bungled, it was mostly a success. Not to mention the fact that your regiment managed to take out a known F.P.U. supporter and veteran," said Ranforth. "We've been looking for an excuse to take Quaz Honderell out."

"Which one was Honderell, sir?" asked Corporal Stavers

"The Koth with the spread rifle," answered Ranforth. "The one who took out five of your men in a one man charge." Corporal Stavers' mouth hung open at the mention of the losses.

"I lost five men?" he asked.

"Eight, actually," said Ranforth, leaning back in his chair. Five by the Koth, three from the reason we're here." He counted them with his fingers as he listed them off. "Good numbers when all is said and done." Corporal Stavers stared at him, mouth agape.

"With all due respect sir, I lost eight men while they only lost four, one of them appearing to only be wounded. I outnumbered and outgunned them. How are those good numbers?" Ranforth leaned forward again.

"Those aren't good numbers, Stavers. But when the universe hears that you only lost one and got wounded while killing ten of them, those will be good numbers." He leaned back once more, a slight satisfied smirk on his face. 

"You mean, we're going to lie? Not just to the Free Planets, but to the Federation and all the other regions?"

"Of course not! As far as the Free Planets and everyone else is concerned, these men were killed in a fire. But, to the Federation, this was a gallant victory. Why do you ask? Is this your first time seeing failed combat?" asked Ranforth.

"Well, yes sir. I'm only a corporal because my parents more or less bought the rank. I've only been in the military a few months." His eyes trailed down to his lap, sheepishly avoiding eye contact with the Major.

"Well this is how it's done, my boy!" said Ranforth. "You didn't think that we won almost every single battle, did you?" Corporal Stavers cheeks flushed, betraying the fact that that was absolutely what he had thought prior to now.

"Still, sir," began Corporal Stavers, "I don't feel right about those eight men."

"Put them out of your mind, soldier. They obviously weren't up to snuff. They failed to perform their duty to the required amount and so they suffered for it." 

"Sir, what are we going to do with the dead?" asked Corporal Stavers.

"Ours, or theirs?" responded Major Ranforth.

"Both, I suppose."

"Well," Ranforth began. "Theirs will be carted into the house which will be set ablaze with a large amount of rust thermite, while ours will most likely be put in a mass grave on asteroid Allacai 14, as befits those who disappoint us in the line of battle." As he finished his statement, Ranforth got up from his chair. "Anymore questions, son?

"No, sir," responded Corporal Stavers, hollowly.

Major Ranforth went to leave and then turned back to add one final statement: "Don't think about those who you are better than, Corporal Stavers. You'll just depress yourself." And he walked out of the cordoned off "room," leaving Corporal Stavers alone with just the smell of antiseptic and his own guilty thoughts.

MEANWHILE...

The question of guests has preyed on many a person's mind. How to entertain them? What to feed them? Where to let them sleep? But, for the most part, nobody has ever had to wonder what to do with the guests after they have come aboard your starship following a failed resistance against soldiers from an oppressive government regime. Alas, such was the question that kept Edward Buck awake. 

He tossed and turned on his poor excuse for a bunk. Really it was a metal slab with a borrowed, hand-knitted blanket thrown over it. Ed wanted to blame his sleeplessness on the uncomfortable bed, but he'd had much worse quarters before. After another fifteen minutes of turning, Ed called it quits and got up. He pulled on his recently looted brown, knee-length leather coat and tried to quietly open his bunk's door. Being homemade, it emitted a piercing shriek as he eased it open.

"Shit," he muttered. Amazingly, nobody stirred. Ed chalked this up to fatigue. Trusting those aboard his ship, Ed left the door open and swiftly crossed the common space in the middle of the ship to the control panel on the opposite wall. He pressed a largish, yellow button on the panel and a section of the floor slowly lowered. The pneumatics gave a slight hiss as they lowered the section of the floor, turning it into a ramp that led to the cargo bay. As the floor touched down with a weak clang, Ed stepped down into the cargo bay, flicking a switch that powered on the bright fluorescents in the ceiling. 

Spread out before him was a large room, mostly empty save for about twenty prefab plastic boxes of varying size as well as Flying Mule, jerry-rigged into a harness in the middle of the room. Ed moved past all of these, his mind set on one small box he had come across a week or so ago. He found it where he had left it, stacked on top of one large box he knew to contain various items for mechanical repair.

But, it was the small box he was concerned with. Having successfully located it, he lifted the lid off of it, revealing eighteen bottles of dark liquor. He pulled one of these out and shook it lightly, hearing the sound of the alcohol inside slosh against the glass walls. A satisfied yet slightly hollow smile crossed his face as he set the bottle down and went to close up the box.

The lid clicked back into place and he swept the bottle off the ground as he turned to head back to his quarters. However, he found his way impeded by the seven-and-a-half foot tall praying mantis-esque being in front of him. He started and nearly dropped his bottle of liqour at the sight of the towering form before him. 

"Jesus Christ, Kizzvell!" he said in a loud whisper. "Why? Why did you sneak up on me? Why?!"

Kizzvell stared at him for a moment, blinking Kizzvell's eyes and cocking Kizzvell's head. "You create sound like tortured cat thing when you open shit door. What you think will happen?" Kizzvell spoke with a thick accent, akin to that of someone from the old, old country of Russia on Terran-Firma. "Why do you disturb us at late hour?" 

Ed stared at Kizzvell for a moment before raising the dark bottle in his hand to show Kizzvell the purpose of his late-night expedition. Kizzvell looked at the bottle, pausing for a moment before raising two whiskey glasses. 

"You are easier to read than book implanted in brain," Kizzvell said with a smirk. 

The two of them retreated to the common area of Molon Labe and sat down at one of the tables as Ed poured the liquor. They raised their glasses and clinked them together then raised them to their lips, Ed downing half of his in one swallow.

"So," began Kizzvell. "Why do you not sleep? Ship flies herself. She does not need you to not sleep."

Ed ran his hand over his face, as though he were much older than his mid-thirties. 

"I could tell you that it was my bed, but you know why." He raised his eyes to Kizzvell's "Don't you?"

"You feel guilty on Quaz, I think?" responded Kizzvell. "I do as well. Quaz was good friend." Kizzvell paused, as though he was wondering about whether or not to continue. He heaved a sigh, the matter settled in his mind. "You know, I serve with Kizzvell in War of Division. We lose touch after war is over." Kizzvell leaned in closer to Ed. "My planet was one that Federation keeps. I can not stay there, Federation knows I am rebel. So, I planet-hop for little bit. Nowhere can I find safe place to live or work. Some Fed bastard always sees mark," Kizzvell gestured towards his lower back. "Or recognizes my face." 

Kizzvell chuckled at that. "Of course, it is very odd face. Anyway, for one year do I planet-hop, eventually arriving to Hellhole. I get off ship and after two months of still not finding work--after all, Federation fear-mongering is very successful--I finally collapse in garbage heap. I think to myself: 'This is it. Kizzvell cannot go on. The universe does not want Kizzvell. It does not want F.P.U. officer around.' Kizzvell spends about three hours in garbage heap before man turns Kizzvell over. Who should it be, but Quaz. He brings Kizzvell home and nurses Kizzvell back to health and provides place to sleep while Kizzvell looks for work." Kizzvell stopped and Ed could swear he saw tears coming out of his eyes. 

"Quaz was good friend to Kizzvell as well, but Kizzvell knows, he died in way he wanted to. Quaz wouldn't be happy until Federation was destroyed. He couldn't live knowing it live too." Kizzvell fell silent.

Ed sipped his liquor again, slower this time, and looked up at Kizzvell. "You were a good friend to him," he said.

"Very best," responded Kizzvell. Kizzvell swirled his glass for a little bit, staring at it, before asking Ed: "What you do now? You kill Federation operatives. You cannot get job." Kizzvell gave Ed a hard stare, like a father asking who broke the window.

Ed thought for a moment and then smiled to himself. "This is gonna sound real stupid, but as I see it, becoming a pirate is the only route for me." He took another swig of the liquor.

Once again, Kizzvell sank into thought. Kizzvell rose out of it once more. "If you want to be pirate you need navigator. Kizzvell has been everywhere. Kizzvell will be navigator." Ed looked up a Kizzvell, nonplussed.

"What? What about your life? Or Parsee?" he asked. Kizzvell laughed.

"Any life Kizzvell had died with Fed men on Hellhole. Same with Parsee. You need muscle for piracy too. This is where Parsee excels."

Ed just stared on. "I couldn't ask you guys to do that. It's just-" Kizzvell quickly cut him off.

"Kizzvell is not being asked. Kizzvell is telling." 

"Well then," said Ed. "I guess you're my navigator." He paused. "Now I just need to deal with these refugees."

Kizzvell smirked. "Where to?"