Chiv threw his whole body weight behind the lunge, the long baton in his hands aimed directly at her chest, or neck. If it hit with his three hundredish pounds behind it, it would not only light her nerves up again, it would likely crush her sternum, or her windpipe, if not literally skewer her.
Her reaction was reflexive. As the baton plunged down she rolled toward it, hand catching the side of the baton and shoving it off target. Her arm cramped viciously as the baton affected its nerves, but the end of it hit the floor instead of her, and the motion pushed Chiv off balance. Still gripping the baton, she wrenched it the other way, tearing it out of his hands.
She lost her grip on the baton itself almost immediately, her affected arm unable to retain its hold with the pain and muscle spasms, and it clattered away over the floor. She pushed up to her feet at the same time Chiv recovered from his stumble.
Somehow, she found the handle of the dagger that Niwol had put into her belt in her hand. Chiv surged forward to meet her with a roar, and at the same time she drove in to meet him, riding on nothing but frantic adrenaline and the hand to hand training that had been impressed into her day after day by Malibu and Shadow.
She felt the dagger sink into something as they came together. She wasn't sure if it was his gut or his side but it was definitely flesh. Blood welled hot over her hand. She didn't have the leverage to draw it out and stab again, and ended up just hanging on to it desperately, pressing or twisting it whenever she was able to.
Her other arm, the one with the broken shoulder, was too busy trying to keep Chiv's mouth back. Evolved or not, the Kilrathi were big Cats, and they had a lot of very large teeth that apparently Chiv was not afraid to use. One fang skidded over her cheek and she pressed harder, the struggling pair swinging around in a circle.
Pain was ripping into her back and sides. Chiv was tearing his claws over her back in fiery sweeps, and trying to use his advantage of weight to force her off her feet. He tried to swing one of his hands up toward her face but the angle was awkward, and she swung them around in another circle to help avoid it, giving the dagger a further sharp twist.
He had the advantage of teeth, claws, and weight, but Parry had the singular drive of desperation and fear.
His feet caught on something as they started around in a circle again- it was possible he'd stepped on the baton and it had rolled underfoot. Whatever the reason, he suddenly stumbled, his balance shifting. Parry immediately pressed the advantage, and the pair slammed against the wall hard enough that his head striking the metal gave a resounding crack!
He was dazed for a brief moment, and her new leverage gave her the chance to rip the dagger out of his body, and then jab it back in, this time aimed directly at his diaphragm. He gave a coughing, whining snarl as it sank in, and tried to bite her again. His claws were now in her shoulders and biceps as he gripped her arms, trying to throw her back.
If he succeeded, she knew she was dead, all possible advantage lost. She twisted the dagger again and pressed on his throat with her forearm, cutting off his air.
Now his motions were less anger and more frantic. His eyes bulged and his hands pawed over her arms, raking gash after gash across them. Parry pressed harder, and harder. Her numb fingers slipped off the hilt of the dagger and that hand shot up to join her arm. She shifted her grip, now throttling him with both thumbs pressed hard into his windpipe.
Her teeth were bare almost in mimic of his, her breath coming in distant, panting, whooping gasps. Weakening moment by moment from the lack of air and blood loss, Chiv's hands fumbled from her arms and went instead to the wrists gripping his throat, attempting to loosen them. He kept trying to throw his hips forward, to push her back just far enough he could get his legs into play too, anything to return the advantage to his court. Parry's boots dug in hard and every fiber of her body felt knotted into stone as she resisted each attempt.
She was screaming furiously into his face by this point. She was barely aware she was doing it, that within the screams were words, curses, insults- the verbal vomit of furious heartbreak and wild retribution.
Gagging, eyes bulging, he was growing weaker and weaker, starting to lose consciousness. His hands trembled from around her wrists, his thumbs digging their claws into the fleshy pads of her palms. She held on even tighter, dropping to her knees and following him down as he started to collapse, his hands falling free, his body going limp.
Her fingers felt locked, and it took her a moment to loosen them. Arms shaking, she fumbled down, found the dagger still embedded in his gut, and tore it out, plunging it into his neck with almost the same motion.
She sat there, straddling the dead Kilrathi who had tortured her for days, covered in both his and her blood and shaking madly. She was no longer shouting, but her throat felt like it was on fire and the air that was moving through it with her panting gasps seemed thin and lit.
Shifting, she half crawled off Chiv, feeling suddenly as weak as a newborn. Part of her mind was still shouting at her, telling her she had to go, that the self-destruct was going to go off at any moment. The rest of her didn't care. She just wanted to lie down. Death, at this moment, was unimportant. In fact, the thought of it was something of a relief.
Her hand came down on the metal floor and immediately slipped, nearly spilling her right onto her face. Catching herself, she half sat and looked at her palm.
Both her hands were covered in blood, as if she had dipped them into full buckets of the stuff. The gashes Chiv had made to her palms were welling thickly. On her left hand, however, the gash had torn down over her wrist. Blood was flooding down far more thickly there.
Seeing it pouring, her survival instinct kicked in again. She clamped her free hand over the wound, staggered to her feet. Heat ran down her back like trickles of warm rain. Part of her shirt dangled from her waist, the cloth shredded in a dozen different places thanks to Chiv's claws. Gripping the dangling strip, she tore it off, then tied it shakily around her wrist, trying to stop the blood flow.
Fumbling, she found the sling that had been hanging over her shoulder was also still there, and mostly intact. Pulling it off she also bound that around her wrist. Not bothering to look at Chiv again, she limped weakly away, toward the final hangar.
The ship there wasn't a fighter, but looked like a small mobile communications relay that could be deployed to battle zones to help prevent comm delays between fighter Wings. That it was flight ready and had a pit was all she cared about.
Climbing wearily up its side, she feared she might fall more than once. Her grip was shaky already, and the blood coating her didn't help. Somehow, she made it up, nearly falling into the pit.
She had no flight suit on, no helmet, so locking in was pointless. Wearily she pulled the harness over her shoulders and then stared blankly at the flight controls.
They were all in Kilrathi, of course, and the layout and displays were all different than she was used too.
I can't do it, Ray, she thought, head slumping to the side of the pit. I can't do it.
You can, Ray replied gently. I know that you can, Angel.
I can't. There's no time. I just want to sleep-
C'mon soldier. You can do this. We don't need sleep, remember? It's just a bad habit we've fallen into. Find the hatch controls. Come on.
Parry's hand fumbled out and she lifted her head. Somehow, she found the hatch controls and the pit closed up.
There you go. Now the engine idle. C'mon. They may be in a different place but you'll know it when you see it. Engines.
Almost as if moving in a dream, Parry groped out and found switches, found the pedals, found the stick. She heard the engines roaring up behind her. The hangar was already open onto the flight deck.
I won't be able to open the launch doors, she thought, even as she slowly taxied out onto the deck. In front of her, the big gray reinforced doors were a solid wall. Even if the ship she had were armed, a full set of Grizzlies would do nothing to open them and the explosions would all be trapped within the deck- destroying her and any other unfortunate sap that happened to be inside.
Then, miraculously, the lights switched from red to green, and the doors began to open.
Of course, Ara had thought of this too. With the ship about to go up it would be standard procedure to open all flight decks- allowing evac and launch of fighters.
Which meant Parry might have more time than she thought she did. Though it felt like hours had passed in the fight with Chiv alone, clearly that wasn't the case.
No, you have less time than you think, Ray told her. Ara would open the doors to make sure that you could launch under the pretense of allowing for evac- but she doesn't really want anyone else getting out in time. She'd delay opening the flight decks until the last possible moment, and only ships in ready launch with actual pilots already inside them will have time to get out. You have to go. Now.
The stars beyond the launch door seemed to wobble and swirl, leaving thin contrails of light in her vision. Her arm seemed a million miles away as she switched from taxi idle to full engines. Immediately the ship began to roar toward those distant stars- she hadn't even located the choke to stop them.
The little comm ship belted out of the flight deck and into open space. Parry didn't even bother to correct her course. If fighters or other hostiles came out after her, she was done. She couldn't fight them. She had no weapons on this ship, and even if she did, the stars had gone from tiny smears to thick wobbling drunk orbs, and the controls of the ship were a million miles away.
She slumped to the side in a slow dream. The side of the pit coming up against her head felt as soft as a pillow. Her eyes drifted shut.
Angel…Ray's voice was echoing and distant. Parry seemed to be falling into it.
Angel…
…come home, Angel…
{Bogey 3296 identify yourself.}
Everything felt heavy and thick and hot. The voice was an irritated little wasp dancing around her ear, shattering the obsidian peace she had found.
{Bogey 3296, this is Confed First Fleet security control. We have you on our scope. Identify yourself.}
Angel tried to open her eyes but it was too hard. As darkness pulled her down again, the fading voice followed her.
{Bogey 3296, we have armed fighters heading to intercept your course. If you do not identify yourself they will engage hostilities…}
Sleep.
When Parry woke up again everything around her was white and silver. A gleaming play of light danced over her eyes, and she watched it unconcerned for an unknown length of time before it seemed to come into focus. It was the edge of some kind of railing or pipe, reflecting winks of bright flourescents.
In an endless fuzz, she just watched it, watched how the light danced and flickered against the metal. Eventually, she became aware of other things, other sounds, going on around her.
Soft voices. The smell of antiseptic and cotton. A low, almost pleasant beep. Softness under her cheek.
Then gray. She turned her gaze onto the gray a moment, trying to puzzle it out. It was cloth. Fine cloth. Cloth on a person.
"Lt. Mazurek? Can you hear me, Lt. Mazurek?"
The gentle, feminine voice drew her eyes upward. The woman wearing the gray looked down at her with a smile.
"Good morning, Lt. Mazurek. How are you feeling?"
It seemed to take forever for her lips to cooperate, and when they did, her voice seemed tiny and sandpapered. "Fuzzy…"
"That's to be expected, it's the pain medication," the woman said. "Do you know where you are, Lieutenant?"
"No…"
"I am authorized to tell you that you are in the infirmary on the TCP Houston. You have been here for two days."
"Houston…"
Thought seemed to sharpen abruptly, memory returning. She looked up at woman she now recognized as wearing a Confed medic's uniform, looked around the small private infirmary room. Houston. Was she really back on Houston?
Was she home?
"Yes," the medic said, then smiled. "Welcome home, Lieutenant."
"How did-"
The nurse held up her hand. "I am not allowed to answer any questions, I'm sorry," she said. "Now that you are awake and communicative you will be debriefed. I have already notified General Bastille. I am also limited in what I can tell you or ask you myself. You have been treated for malnutrition, blood loss, and dehydration. You sustained several lacerations, some of them incredibly deep. All have been cleaned up and sutured, however the scars will be impressive. Most of these wounds were on your back and arms, and if it weren't for the pain medication you are on right now, you would be incredibly uncomfortable. We also treated a badly broken collar bone- your arm will be immobile in that cast for several more days."
Parry blankly looked down along her body. Her wounded arm was indeed bound up in a plastic cast which looked like a thin honeycomb, keeping her arm and shoulder immobile. An IV was affixed to the crook of her other arm, and both her hands and wrists were wound with gauze and sealed with protective coverings.
"Now that you are awake you can take in some solid food," the medic said. "I'll have a tray brought. Once you've eaten, if you feel strong enough, I'll allow the debrief."
"Can you just tell me if-"
"I'm sorry, Lieutenant. I can really tell you nothing, not until I'm authorized. Try and rest. I'll get that tray here for you soon."
The medic gave her a light smile, then turned and walked out of the room. Parry glanced around again. She still felt incredibly tired, and it was hard to keep her eyes open, but her thoughts were swirling in the malaise of the medications.
Home. Did I really made it home? Or is this some kind of elaborate Cat trick?
She thought back as best she could. She remembered the fight with Chiv only too well. It seemed seared into her brain. She remembered getting into the Kilrathi ship- after that, things were only snatches, vague impressions. She didn't think she'd managed to plot any course or had even been able to triangulate her own position. She must have had the good fortune of being aimed right for the Territories with no hazards in her path- or else the Confed had crossed into the Territories after the Muhs OhDann exploded, and picked her up drifting along the border.
The medic's mention of confidentiality and debrief was to be expected. She was an escaped POW. Only certain people would be authorized to talk to her or debrief her about what had occurred. It was standard procedure, in case she'd learned any sensitive information on her capture that might be classified, or in case her incarceration had left her brainwashed and some kind of double agent. More, it may be that the Cats had released an imposter hoping to implant a mole under their control, or that she had always been a mole and the 'capture' was a way for her to deliver her information to the Cats and then return to gather more.
The swirling thoughts only made her more exhausted, and she dozed off again.
She woke to a gentle touch on her arm, the medic waking her so she could eat. The food was a bit better than the normal chowline fare, but purposefully bland and easily digested. Hungry as she suddenly was, only a few mouthfuls was enough to make her nauseous again, and she ended up being unable to finish. The medic reassured her this was normal after going so long without food, and they would try small amounts again in an hour or two.
She dozed off again. This time, when she woke up, it wasn't just the medic there.
Helen Bastille stood as crisp and stern as ever near the bed. Beside her was a man that Parry had seen before but had never spoken too- Captain Argos Marshall of SOTAC. He was a well put together, square shouldered fellow with glinting eyes and dark skin. A thin white scar was on his lower lip, and a folder was tucked under his arm.
Another man stood a bit behind them. His hair was graying blonde, soft and almost baby thin, drifting like puffs of dandelion over his ears. He had an easy smile and an almost unkempt affability about him. Him, she did not recognize.
The medic looked her over and asked her a few questions on how she was feeling, then nodded to Bastille and exited the room. The affable fellow followed her to the door, but did not exit as well. Instead, he put a command in near the door that sealed the room for confidentiality. Then he returned to the foot of the bed.
"How are you feeling, Parry?" Bastille asked, her soft French-colored voice professional as always. Even so, Parry imagined she heard sympathy buried within it.
"Glad to be home, ma'am," she replied.
Bastille smiled a little, and nodded. "I have no doubt of that. This is Captain Argos Marshall of SOTAC."
She gestured to the man at her side, then at the other man. "And this is Dr. Rahul Versi."
The 'Dr.' gave it away. Parry looked at him.
"You're a shrink?"
He smiled a little. "On the barest level, yes," he said pleasantly. "I also work for SOTAC. It is part of my job to make sure that you are not only fit mentally for duty but to help determine the veracity of what you tell us about your experiences."
Her brows knit and she fixed him more keenly. "You mean, determine if I'm a Mandarin traitor, or I've been brainwashed."
"Yes," he said honestly.
She looked at him a moment, then returned her gaze to Bastille. "How long was I gone?"
"Seventeen days," she said without hesitation. To Parry, it felt like a random, arbitrary number. It felt like she'd been gone years.
The three pulled over chairs and at first Bastille just told her to tell her perception of events from the beginning. Parry told them everything, but as the story went on Bastille and Marshall occasionally interrupted with questions or comments. Versi remained silent, simply observing.
They wanted to know about the torture she went through- how often it occurred, what was the nature of it, what questions did they ask, did she answer any of them? They wanted her to describe Chiv and the human doctor. When she told them what Hector had looked like, Marshall produced an old, folded photograph and showed it to her.
"Was this him?" he asked.
"Yes," she said.
"Where did you obtain this photograph?"
"He gave it to me. Wanted me to send it to the address on the back."
He nodded, folding the photo and slipping it away again.
It continued. She told them about Ara Chaz and repeated everything she'd said to her. Everything- about being a traitor, about implanting information so that Chiv and the others would think she was an elite operative, about the made up projects and her conversations with SOTAC- everything. This conversation, of course, prompted the most questions, both Bastille and Marshall picking apart everything she said, often making her repeat sections of the conversation over and over again.
This all didn't happen in the first session. Three days passed with repeated visits from Bastille and the other two. Often, they had her recount the entire story again. Sometimes, Marshall would repeat it back to her with deliberate, subtle changes- when he did, Parry would correct him. As this went on, her corrections came with increasing anger.
Versi rarely, if ever, spoke. When he did, it was usually to clarify some seemingly innocuous point. The first time, he wanted her to clarify the length of the baton that Chiv had used. Another time, he seemed more concerned with which fingers Hector had used to straighten her broken nose.
During all this, Parry was slowly getting her strength back. She was still allowed to see no one else other than the three and her medic. Any time she asked about her wingmates and anything that had happened on the Confed side while she was gone, her questions were deflected or simply went unanswered.
By the fourth day, Parry was well enough to do some walking around. They'd taken her off the IVs and she was on oral pain medications and solid food. When the door opened that day, she was a bit surprised to see only Bastille enter, neither Marshall nor Versi anywhere in sight.
There was a low sofa in the room with Parry. Bastille gestured to it and invited her to sit, then sat down beside her.
"You look better," she said conversationally.
"My body is healing," Parry said softly.
"The rest will come in time," Bastille said almost gently.
"Will it?"
"You have been through a lot, Angel," Bastille said. "You must give it time, and help."
"I take it SOTAC has all the answers they want?" Parry asked.
"Yes. What you have told us meshes with what intelligence we have been able to glean. The doctor that helped you, Hector Lopez, was a known double agent who had been infiltrating the Mandarin on the Confed's behalf. It was determined that he died in a Kilrathi raid but there were rumors he was working with some Kilrathi resistance to undermine the Cats within the Empire itself. The projector and the plans we found in your pockets, along with the photograph of Hector and his family, bear out your story. Both Marshall and Versi are satisfied that you are telling the truth, and while you may face some psychological issues regarding the ordeal you faced, you are officially not a traitor, imposter, or brainwashed spy."
"Permission to speak freely?"
"Always."
"They are satisfied…but you aren't?"
Bastille looked at her. "I never doubted it to begin with."
Parry stared at her. "I don't understand."
"Alpha Wing and Jondell have told me that you seem to be grateful for the opportunity you were given to enter the SFT, but puzzled as to why it was offered to you to begin with. You consider yourself a good pilot, but nothing special. The others in your Wing seemed to have certain talents and skills, things that made them stand out from the rest, but you were confused as to what your Colonel saw to prompt him to recommend you for this Wing, what prompted me to accept that recommendation."
"Yes ma'am."
"You are a born leader, Parry. You are measured, skilled- not only in the cockpit, but in your interactions with your fellow pilots. Your Colonel did not recommend you as just an SFT pilot for Houston- he recommended you to be the Wing Commander of the new SFT Wing."
Parry stared at her, in utter disbelief. "Wing Commander? Me?"
"Yes. And if we did not already have Lt. Killdare slated for that position, I would have strongly considered that recommendation. You know how to lead, how to hold people together, to give them hope and determination. I saw it easily looking over your records and flight recordings before you ever came here, and we have all seen it every moment since you've been here. You make people want to follow you, Parry, and your unending devotion and loyalty does not just extend to your friends, but also your people, the Confed. I have dealt with more Mandarins and traitors than I care to remember. I have necessarily developed a knack for sniffing them out, as it were. You are neither."
"So…does this mean I'm cleared for duty?" Parry asked.
"Not quite," Bastille said. "You have been through an extremely taxing ordeal, as I said-both physically and psychologically. You will have mandatory sessions with Dr. Versi to help you process everything you had to endure. You will have to be cleared by him and pass your physicals and a flight test before you can return to full active duty. And, there is more."
"More?"
"Mazurek, the Muhs OhDann did explode exactly four hours before your stolen Kilrathi transport was picked up drifting within the Territories. SOTAC has confirmed- Ara Chaz was lost in the explosion. As well, the plans we found in your pocket not only lent evidence to your story but also have given us the location of several Cat communication posts. They were hit last night, and communications along the Kilrathi side of the border have been strongly disrupted. We are waiting confirmation but it appears they are in full withdrawal-in this sector at least."
Parry nodded weakly. "Good. That's good to hear."
"It is a strong blow for the Confed- one we intend to take full advantage of in solidifying our foothold here and bolstering our position while the Kilrathi regroup and re-evaluate. I have been in full communication with Headquarters and with the heads of SOTAC and they have received full record of your testimony and the actions of Ara Chaz. I have received my orders this morning. As of now, until further notice, your conversation with Ara Chaz and the true events that transpired on the Muhs OhDann are considered highly confidential, rank A1. As far as the rest of the Confed will know- including your own wingmates- you did exactly what Ara Chaz wanted the universe to believe: you escaped custody on your own, you managed to set the self-destruct, and you got out by yourself. You killed Ara Chaz. There was no conversation, and no hint shall be spoken that Ara Chaz was a traitor to her people or had any hand in her own death. Are we clear?"
"Ma'am, I-"
"This is non-negotiable," Bastille said firmly. "If you tell anyone who does not have the proper clearance for the information you will be tried as a traitor and prosecuted to the fullest extent of Confed law. Are we clear?"
"Yes ma'am. We're clear," Parry said softly.
Bastille nodded. "Good. I know this is a lot to put on your shoulders, but Ara was right about that as well. Our side needs a hero, and we have seen fit to give them one."
"Confidentiality aside, I'm not a hero," Parry said. "They practically walked me out the door. I was nothing but a means to an end-"
"Those scars on your back say differently to me," Bastille said. "The two weeks of torture in which you gave them nothing- everything you did was exactly as you should have done, Mazurek. Like it or not, a hero is exactly what you are, Ara Chaz aside."
Parry fell into silence, staring at the floor. Bastille was wrong. She wasn't a hero. She was just a poor sap who had been in the wrong place at the right time. Ara herself had said it- they'd have taken anyone. It was just pure chance they'd snagged her and no one else.
I couldn't even save my wingman, she thought. I couldn't even save Ray. I'm no fucking hero.
Bastille watched her a moment, giving her a few seconds before she spoke again. "Your Wing was aware that a Kilrathi ship was picked up drifting on the border after the Muhs OhDann exploded, but they were not informed that the person in that ship was you, until this morning. They are understandably eager to see you again."
"It will be good to see them again too," Parry replied, though part of her didn't feel it. It was her fault Ray was gone, after all- and she'd directly defied Jon's orders. Much as they would try to hide it, would she see blame for that behind their eyes?
Two and a half weeks, she thought. Ray's funeral is long over and done with. They'd have reassigned a new wingman by now…maybe two, given the fact that I was MIA.
Not looking at Bastille, her gaze and thoughts far away, Parry said, "If I can, I'd like to pay my respects."
"Respects?" Bastille asked.
"Yeah. I mean, I couldn't save her. I…I owe her that much."
"Lt. Mazurek, are you referring to Lt. Caruso?"
Parry looked over at her, and Bastille's brows lifted ever so slightly. "Of course, no one has told you."
"Told me what?" Parry asked, and her heart suddenly started to race. Bastille met her eyes, then spoke a handful of words that seemed to stop the world and open the floodgates in Parry's eyes.
She was still shuffling more than walking, any big motion pulling the healing cuts all over her back and arms, but she barely felt them beyond a distant annoyance as she followed Bastille through the infirmary hallways.
Her wounded arm still in a sling, she gripped on to the hem of the scrubs she was wearing with her good hand, trying to keep it from shaking.
Bastille reached a room door in the ICU section of the infirmary, and wordlessly opened it, gesturing for Parry to precede her. Not that Parry needed the gesture- she was already moving in, eyes fixed on only one thing.
The bed was surrounded by equipment, tubes and wires all plugged into the small figure resting in it. She looked pale and shrunken, the dark lids of her closed eyes appeared bruised. The only parts of her body that could be seen were her head and neck, shoulders, and arms. The rest was draped with blankets, bandages peeping just over the edge of the sheet that draped across her chest. The shoulders, part of her neck, and side of her face were marbled with black, green, yellow, and blue.
Beneath the blanket, Parry could see the shape of her left leg, her foot making a small bump in the covers.
Her right leg ended just above the knee, the blankets falling flat where her calf and foot should have been.
Parry moved toward the bed, covering her mouth a moment before that hand gently reached out and lightly drifted over short, dark hair.
On the pillow, her head shifted a little, turning toward the touch even as those bruised eyes slowly cracked open. Brows wrinkled, a look of half-drugged shock coming over her face.
"Wh-what?" she said in a tiny voice. "P-Parry…?"
"Shh," Parry said, eyes blurring even as she smiled. "I'm here. I'm home."
The tears fell unbidden, and she carefully picked up the hand resting on the sheets and pressed the back of it to her lips.
"I'm home, Ray…"