This short story has submitted to me in 2005 by Tiger Jackson, and has been sleeping on my hard drive ever since. It’s with respect to its author that it is proudly presented today, during the Halloween Challenge – a Challenge in which Tiger excelled so much in the past years. I’ve lost contact with Tiger, and this story is posted without her
consent, in the hope that she would contact me if she sees this. C.B. |
A Captain
Scarlet and the Mysterons short story
by
Tiger Jackson
Why am I finding this so hard to deal with? I’ve always known it
was a possibility. We all know that. Every mission has risks. Heck, just being
alive has risks. He bit his lip as he looked down at the dead man. But he
was my partner. And my best friend.
Glancing
sideways at the man beside him, he wished, not for the first time, that Colonel
White had not sent his partner out with an inexperienced agent. If I’d been
there instead… He stopped that
train of useless thought. Under the circumstances, his partner’s death had been
unavoidable.
His
eyes were dry but he rubbed them with the back of one hand. I haven’t cried.
I don’t even feel like I can cry. Maybe it’s the shock; I still can’t take it in
that you’re dead. Or maybe it’s just my upbringing. I learned, by admonition
and by example, that boys don’t cry. Ever. I wish I could now. Just this once.
He
wished the man beside him would leave.
He should have refused the offer of company, should have said he wanted
some time alone to come to terms with his friend’s death. Is this vigil as
hard on you as it is on me? he wondered. Can it be? Soon, a family
would have to be told that their son was dead. They would undoubtedly have
questions about his death for him and for Colonel White. What are we going
to say? Is there really any comfort for them in hearing that he died bravely in
the line of duty?
Swallowing
hard, he tried to pray, stopped, tried again. Somehow, he just couldn’t feel
that anybody was listening. Or that his prayers would matter. There should
have been a huge memorial service or at least a formal service in the chapel. I
should have tried to arrange something. Flowers. Prayers. Tears. He
hesitated, then looked down into his dead friend’s face. His lips twitched with
bitter humor in spite of his grief. Neither he nor his partner had ever
particularly enjoyed being the center of attention and the thought of an
absurdly grandiose funeral for either of them would have been an escalating joke.
Perhaps a shower of rose petals, doves released from the flight deck,
Mozart’s Requiem sung by a chorus of hundreds…
By now his friend would have been scowling at him furiously before
breaking into laughter. You would
have hated that, wouldn’t you? Maybe this tiny, informal, very private funeral
is what you would have wanted. I can only hope so.
The
undertaker and his assistant entered the room quietly. “Begging your pardon,
sirs,” he said, bobbing his head towards each of the men impartially, “but the
jet is ready. We have to be at the crematorium as soon as practical.”
They
nodded and stepped back. The undertakers neatly closed and sealed the coffin,
then wheeled it out of Sickbay.
The other
man’s clenched jaw cracked softly but audibly as he spoke. “Will you help me
dispose of his remains?”
“I’ve already promised I would. If permission is granted.” The reply was clipped, the voice guarded.
“Thanks.”
The dark-haired man turned away and nodded to the Spectrum security guards, who
swiftly flanked him for the walk back to his room in the quarantine ward. Dr
Fawn was waiting to conduct more tests.
Captain
Blue watched him go. I’ve just said goodbye to my best friend, yet he was
standing beside me the whole time. Or was he? What was he thinking? What was he
feeling? What is he?
Any
comments? Send an E-MAIL to the SPECTRUM HEADQUARTERS site