Fragments Gallery
Reavers: Grief
Sellsword opened his eyes to numbly examine the console before him. That cursed headline stared out at him once again. “Langath station attacked. Thousands dead. Assailants unknown.” Was typed out in bold, black letters atop the news piece that had flashed onto his work station shortly after he awoke.
“Thousands dead” - those words haunted him. His parents, brothers and sister all lived in Langath station. It was supposed to be a safe harbour; Langath was far enough from the conflict zones on the outlying planets in the system that it was assumed to be safe. The spaceport was also fairly close to the capital of the human alliance and that space was covered by defense forces. How had something got through to strike at his home? There should be no war there; no conflict. Or so he had thought before this happened.
The console buzzed as a new message came through and he hurriedly opened it on the screen. His heart sank as he stared at the message contents; it was nothing more than a memo for this week’s classes. Immediately after he had seen the headline he had tried to contact his family however the message hadn't gone through. Instead he had only received a “message undelivered” response. Communications must have been flooded or cut; either way they were down. Disheartened he dismissed the message.
He swiped a finger across a few of the digital buttons on the console to transfer the news story and turned away from his desk in time to see the holoboard by his bunk receive the data. The information related to the attack arrayed itself in panels above the board. The video panels played a few frames silently and then looped while the textual articles and image galleries just showed an overview of their contents.
A particular article jumped out at him as he swiped through the panels. He grabbed it and made the gesture to open it. A list of ID tags, complete with images, blossomed forth from the panel as the other slides faded into the background. Thousands of faces, and names, stared out at him. These were the faces of the dead.
“Computer,” he said his voice monotonous and commanding, “Search last name Andrews.”
A green progress bar appeared and began to advance as the machine sifted through the gathered information. The computer was accessing the datanet that encompassed the human alliance planetary network; it would take some time for the scan to complete. A few hits almost instantly sorted onto the left side. Sellsword was relieved, guiltily relieved since these poor souls were still dead, to see that none of the faces matched those of his family.
A tone played at the door of Sellsword’s quarters announcing that someone stood outside. He glanced at the door then back at his holoboard. He didn’t really want to see anyone right now. At this moment all he wanted was to see that none of his family members were reported dead.
The tone rang again. Someone really wanted to see him.
“Mute holo,” he muttered and then went to answer the door. Sellsword pushed his palm savagely into the door’s release button; this was not a good time for him to see anyone.
Freya stood on the other side of the portal. The expression on her face told him that she’d already seen the news. Among the trainees only she knew what the attack meant for him. On this base recruits were not encouraged to discuss where they came from, too many rivalries and disputes between stations for that, but Freya and Sellsword were closer than most.
Before the door mechanisms had even stopped whirring her arms had already enveloped him in a hug. Sellsword tapped the button again to close the door and the heavy steel slab slid shut to hide the corridor beyond. Just like talking about the past, relationships were not encouraged past the point of comradeship. Sellsword and Freya were just friends but they were close friends; far too close for the liking of the academy.
“Restore holo,” said Freya as she drew back out of his arms. The hologram flickered back to life and the pair approached the table. She knew him well; she knew that he would be searching the lists and that he would have hidden the holo before opening the door.
Sellsword’s eyes flicked across the growing list of results; there was still nothing relevant to him. He didn’t recognize any of the names. Freya eyed him intently watching for any change in his expression. He looked at her and shook his head.
“Who could have done this,” she sighed, “Who could strike so far into our space?”
Sellsword just shook his head numbly. The same questions flickered across his mind but he had no answers. Langrath had minimal military value; it was a trade and manufacturing port with a primary focus on the entertainment industry. It was one of the wealthier ports but most of that wealth wasn’t tied into the alliance military. There was no reason to strike there. Unless...
“Maybe the Rebels aren’t directly responsible for this,” Sellsword finally spoke; his voice was harsh and came out a croak, “Maybe this was an internal attack only meant to cause terror. Maybe this wasn’t a military incursion but a covert op.”
He froze as another hit on his search popped up an ID card. Florence Andrews. That was Sellsword’s older brother. Immediately his eyes sought the cause of death listed on the card; it read “asphyxiation due to smoke inhalation.” His brother had died in the fires.
His knees wobbled as he sat down on the bed. Florence was gone. The brother who had taught him so much, who he had looked up to, was dead. It was a numb feeling that settled upon him. He felt as though this wasn't real, as if it couldn't be real. Tears threatened but they wouldn’t come.
The holoboard pinged as the search finished. He looked up at the floating images and was relieved to see that he didn’t know any of the other names that had showed up. One was more than enough.
Freya joined him on the edge of the bed and she wrapped her arms around him. Her warmth and presence comforted him. Being this close to her felt... good. In spite of this tragedy her embrace helped him.
“I’m sorry Colin,” she murmured in his ear, her breath warm on his skin, “I’m so sorry.”
Close friends, he thought as he tried to hold back his tears, nothing more.
His head fell onto her shoulder and he gave into his grief. He would find the ones responsible and make them pay.