Expired

We were herded into a single-file line, and then told to turn right, which we did. We faced the one in charge, this short Sangheili, shorter than any other I’ve ever seen. Taller than any of us, among his people he was still considered… I don’t know, a very tall dwarf? So, we stood before this very tall dwarf of a Sangheili, his red uniform faded in color with faint dents and scratches on his arm and leg greaves. He was flanked by two comparatively average Sangheili, apparently his underlings or something like that. The leader walked towards the line, facing our boss, Col Vorath. He walked towards Col and stopped right in front of him and they stared into each other’s eyes.
I looked around. There were eight of us in the line. Me, Col, and then the ship’s doctor Kit, one of the mechanics, Tok, Pik on comms, Dev on navigation, Col’s brother Zin, and one of the new guys, Saf. Poor fellow had severe burns on most of his left arm, and was wrapped in bandages and expired medi-gel. Actually, most of us were little better than Saf. Col and Zin seemed fine, but Kit was exhausted and fading in and out of consciousness on the line, Pik had a gash on his face, Tok’s hand was hurt with shrapnel, and Dev was still recovering from getting shot in the gut a few days ago. Luckily I didn’t get hurt much, just some bruises.
The Sangheili boss started walking up and down the line, pacing, staring at us with a menacing glare. Everyone on the line was unnerved, some scared. I was more despairing, waiting for them to shoot us. I knew the reality of the situation. The Sangheili went back to Col after parading himself up and down the line, and said, “Is this all that’s left of you lot?”
“Yes,” answered Col.
“Who ran you through?”
“The Deres.”
The Sangheili chuckled. “You managed to pick a fight with the Deres pirates? You must have done something truly irritating, for they normally refrain from harassing fellow plunderers, even those with letters of marque.”
“We shot Mama Deres,” answered Zin.
“Indeed?”
“We did,” answered Col.
“And they came for you.”
“Yes,” confirmed Col.
“Did you not anticipate a most severe response from the largest pirate clan in this region after murdering one of their own? Their own matriarch, no less?”
Col and Zin looked at each other and shrugged.
The Sangheili bent down slightly, and leaned in to Col. Now, Col was a T’vaoan, so I couldn’t really tell myself whether he was happy or sad or whatever, I couldn’t read him or Zin as well as someone from Eayn. But still, I did notice him get a little more… anxious when the Sangheili pushed in. Then, he asked the question. The one question that would get us all killed.
“May I see your letter of marque and reprisal?”
Everyone looked at Col and the Sangheili. Col turned his head left and looked at Zin, and I just saw Zin’s eyes just drain of any hope, any joy, and it was just filled with complete despair. “My brother here has it,” said Col and he motioned to Zin, who reached for the small of his back, taking care not to make any sudden or threatening movements. He procured the letter to the Sangheili, which in essence was data stored in a drive, small enough to fit in anyone’s pocket. The Sangheili took it and returned to his two comrades standing about ten or twenty paces away from us. One of his subordinates was tall and lanky, while the other was stout, very muscular even for a Sangheili, but still taller than the leader. They placed the drive on a pad and a hologram displayed our letter, with the word “EXPIRED” in very large, flashing lettering covering the body of the text.
“Maybe we should’ve renewed it earlier,” pondered Dev.
“I told them to get it done,” complained Kit. “But no. I wasn’t in charge.”
“Ship wasn’t yours,” responded Zin.
“What ship?” asked Tok.
“There’s a more important question, though,” I added. “Are they going to shoot us now or later?”
“I’d like it to be later, but I get the feeling it’ll be now,” answered Pik.
“I never even sent my mother any money,” said Saf melancholically.
The Sangheili leader put away the letter and began conversing with his two subordinates. They were too far away for me to hear, and I couldn’t read Sangheili jaws, and so we were all in the dark. After a brief few words, the short leader returned to us. He looked at each one of us for a few seconds, and when he came to me, our eyes locked. I couldn’t get anything from him, it was like he was unreadable, a total mystery. I couldn’t even begin to presume what he was thinking, let alone what his particular intentions were. All I knew was that it was up to him whether we’d live or die, and that I found the absolute worst feeling in the whole Universe. I was paralyzed with fear, sadness, and anxiety, and I said nothing.
Then, the Sangheili, full of life-changing questions apparently, asked us this: “Would any of you like to sign a long-term contract of employment with the Ministry of Resolution?”
I lifted my hand up instantly. I didn’t even let him finish the phrase “Ministry of Resolution.” I looked to my left and to my right, and almost of us had our hands raised. Even Col and Zin. Well, there was one holdout of course, although I didn’t expect it to be Saf, who raised his good arm. Everyone turned their attention to him.
“Is there a signing bonus?” asked Saf. There was confusion swirling amongst the lances, from what I could tell by their faces. “Sorry, it’s just that my mother told me to always ask about the signing bonus.”
“Yes,” responded the Sangheili leader. “And you get salaried.”
I noticed Saf’s eyes squinting slightly. “How much?”
“The bonus or the salary?”
“The salary.”
The tall one turned to the lances. “Jot! How much are you making?” he shouted.
A Kig-Yar with a shield replied, “Fourteen-hundred ru’uki a week!”
Saf’s eyes widened and he raised his hand up. There was some chuckling, although the loudest noises came from the Kig-Yar.
“Very well,” said the Sangheili leader. “Come, let us record your basic personal information so that we may add you to the recruitment pool.”
After going through Col, Zin, Dev, and Pik, they finally came to me. “So, woman, what is your name, your age, your subtype, and your place of origin?” asked the stout one, holding a datapad.
“Tes,” I said. “Twenty half-moons of age. Ruuhtian. Place of origin: Eayn.”
Category:The Weekly