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But cooler heads prevail. From the way his face purples, it seems that the reply he got wasn’t what he had been expecting. The sergeant isn’t about to explode, but he makes no attempt to hide his displeasure. Or his disgust, for that matter. If looks could kill, then Gren would be dead several times over.
“…send him up,” he says with a cold finality. Turning to his marines, he adds, “If the little bastard even twitches in the wrong direction, you shoot him.”
Gren looks up, panicked, as you motion for him to stand.
“No sudden movements, like the sergeant said,” you say, shoving him towards the ladder. “Get up so we can clean up your brother’s mess.”
“Will they hurt me?” he asks, fearful.
They might. Or the rest of the crew. With much of the raiding party dead, there isn’t much in the way for them to vent beyond kicking the corpses around a few times. And given the track record of Kwan ordering the execution of the wounded raiders…
You sigh. “…up you go.”
He’s shaking enough for the ladder to rattle against the hull of the Calypso. But he manages to shimmy up without too much trouble. When Gren’s a handful of feet away from the railing, he’s unceremoniously grabbed by the marines, and hauled over the gunwale like a fish. None too gently. His landing on the deck is accompanied by a sharp yelp.
Grimacing, you quicken your pace, leaping over the side as Halloway slaps a second pair of cuffs on Gren. Overkill much? Jenkins pats him down, not that there’s much he’s got after you took away his gun and toolbelt. And off to the side, Kwan leans against the railing, resting his injured leg, and muttering something into his radio.
Finished with the inspection, Jenkins shouts, “He’s clean!”
The sergeant jerks his head. “Then get him out of my sight.”
The marines aren’t too gentle in manhandling the boy, but they aren’t cruel about it. Gren shoots you one last, final look. Whether it’s a silent plea, or a call for future aid…could’ve been both. All you do is respond with a very curt nod as both prisoner and marines disappear below deck.
Kwan clicks his tongue, annoyed, collapsing onto a bench. “They wouldn’t do the same for us.”
“…it’s what separates us from them,” you counter, but your retort lacks heat. It isn’t an actual belief of being the better man as much as…whatever flight of fancy caused you to spare him. “Besides, he seems to be smarter than the average goon.”
“That remains to be seen.” The sergeant frowns, eyes flicking upward to the bandage slapped across your forehead. “Are you alright?”
…better late than never. But you can’t fault him for being late. Up until however many minutes ago, you were in the cockpit of the Magellan.
“It looks worse than it is,” you reply, reaching up to touch it. Your fingers come back only somewhat damp, and tinged red. “…dinged my head in the explosion.”
“And your PUEXO?”
(cont.)
