Death of a Defender
The Traitor knew that time was running out. He had to make contact with the remaining morph soon, or the whole scheme would end in disaster. While the Traitor had no particular affection for Metamorphs, he had a great deal for his own skin, and he was not at all keen in being made into an object lesson in the perils of failing the Radiant Empire.
However, not only did he believe himself to have a pretty good lead, but the person he suspect of morphery was on duty that Night.
“Awful about Lieutenant
Sally,” he remarked, by way of opening the conversation. “I mean, no one deserves to die like that, not even a morph.”
The crewman agreed, somewhat doubtfully.
“And
Wilwa, too,” the Traitor went on. “I’m sure she was just trying to help, baking those delicious-looking muffins for everyone!”
The other just stared at him. Clearly this approach was not working.
“Look, let’s get to the point: I am the Traitor,” said the Traitor. "You aren't by chance a Metamorph, are you?”
The crewman’s jaw dropped.
“What?”
“Ah,” said the Traitor, taken aback. “Well. You’re not then, I take it? That’s a pity. Not a word about this to anyone– or," he brought a note of menace into his voice, "I can guarantee you
won’t live to regret it.”
*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*.
The crewman, his shift over, made his way back to his quarters as fast as he could, frequently glancing over his shoulder. Once or twice he thought he glimpsed an odd shadow slipping along behind him, but he told himself it was just his imagination running wild. The ship had become a frightening place in which to be alone at Night– and now, as well as the remaining Metamorph and the mysterious killer of Lieutenant Sally, he had to worry about the possibility that the Traitor would change his mind and murder him to keep him quiet.
At a soft noise behind him he looked back once again– and froze, too terrified even to scream.
The figure was clothed entirely in black, its face covered by a black mask that concealed even its eyes. In its gloved hand it held a small but lethal-looking gun– and that gun was pointed straight at his head.
“Well played, Metamorph, but now it’s– game over,” it whispered, squeezing the trigger.
Something pricked the crewman in the forehead. He plucked it out and saw that it was a kind of dart.
“…Huh…?”
The Assassin slumped a little. “Space,” he moaned, “not
again!”
*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*.
Later that Night, Chief Engineer
Loslote took up her post watching the door of the one she had chosen to protect. Her vigil was a brief one.
After less than half an hour someone crept down the hall straight past the Defender, who kept perfectly still in the shadows, and began fiddling with the code-pad on the cabin door.
Loslote coughed. “I believe your cabin’s on the other side of the ship.”
The figure started, then turned, grinning. “Well, well. So
you’re the Defender! Not a problem, for me. You may not be the one I planned on killing, but you’ll do just as well!” it said, launching itself at her.
The Defender leapt to meet it.
The child of interstellar diplomats,
Loslote had been raised on the third moon of the gas giant Mu Arae b, and had been the only human ever to be trained in the ancient Mu Araen fighting style known as “The Way of the Whirlwind”. Now, for the first time since she had received the Mark of the Warrior from her old master’s tentacle, she felt she was up against an opponent who might be able to defeat her. This being, whatever it was, seemed to have muscles of steel, and it could match her for speed, blocking her every strike while getting in some vicious blows of its own.
Loslote’s head swam, her broken left arm hung useless and a cut on her forehead bled profusely into one eye. It was only by luck that one of her desperate hand-chops connected with her adversary’s face, laying its cheek open to the bone.
Or rather metal. The Defender caught the gleam of it deep within the wound, as the thing staggered back.
“What are you?”
Loslote panted.
“You mean you can’t guess?” Unlike the Defender, the thing was not even breathing hard. “I’m a–” it broke off, at the sound of approaching steps. “Later!” it promised her, before sprinting away down the corridor.
The newcomer halted just outside the pool of light cast by the nearest wall-lamp.
Loslote's blurred vision could make out little more than a vague silhouette.
“Thanks,” said the Defender. “I owe you one!”
“Not at all. In fact, I believe
I owe
you one,” replied the last Metamorph, stepping into the light. In its webbed, claw-fingered hand it held an iso-spanner of the largest size. “The one you knew as
Wilwa happened to be my mate. We had five hatchlings!” The iso-spanner swung up and back in a great arc. “Call it– poetic justice!”
Loslote, in her weakened state, never stood a chance.
The Crew
Living
Commander
Inziladun –First Officer.
Lieutenant
Paranoia –Second Officer.
Ensign
Pitchwife –Communications Officer/Interpreter.
Isabellkya –Sensor Technician, First Class.
Shasta –Engineering Technician.
wintywinty –Weapons Maintenance Technician.
Rikae –"Cabin Boy" (a thirteen-year-old stowaway).
Dead
Doctor
Morsul –Medical Officer and Captain
McNerwen. –shot by Traitor on Night One.
Ensign
Blind Guardian–
Tactical Officer. –Died in convulsions (Telepath).
Eomer –Security Officer. –Thrown out the airlock (Bounty Hunter).
Lieutenant
Sally –Navigator. –Torn to pieces (Metamorph).
Chief Petty Officer
Keeper of Dol Guldur –Quartermaster. –Killed by exploding console (Ordinary).
Wilwa –Android Technician, Second Class. –Force-fed own muffins (Metamorph).
Master Chief Petty Officer
Loslote –Chief Engineer. –Beaten to death with iso-spanner (Defender).
*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*
It is now Day Three. You may post.