Adrift

The shuttle pulls away. I peer through a port hole at the big ship’s airlock with the Drift. The damage doesn’t look that bad from here.

We dock with the Binturong. Breathing stale ship air removes a weight; feels good. The sound of guns cocking ruins the homecoming a bit.

The guns, which are many, are being pointed our direction by a crowd of serious-looking people. Serious, except for Burns. He’s smiling.

The attack was Burns’ “bolting hound, flushing game.” For a man living in deep space, he has an odd affection for genteel hunting analogies.

He also enjoys cooking analogies, which is disturbing. The pointed religious analogies are a new addition to his repertoire, however… Hmm.

I have to wonder why he keeps making references to fanatics and martyrs. Is he part of whatever Kaetlyn’s involved in, or just being creepy?

Really, the answer to that is obvious: Burns is violent, territorial, and vindictive – yes. Creepy – no. Which means he knows about Kaetlyn.

I think about Kaetlyn, mixed up with Burns. I’d much prefer him morbid and apocalyptic instead. There: the upside to a revenge crucifixion.

I know Burns – better than I’d like, and well enough to regret. Right now, he’s stalling because he wants two mutually exclusive things.

Educated guess: he wants to gut me on the deck of my own ship, AND wants what I know about Kaetlyn’s mission. Has to be an angle I can use.

The problem: he can’t ask me for anything in front of his people – comes across weak. Hell, some are twitching because I’m not dead already.

Solution: I beg. For my life, my crew, my ship, my daughter. I beg to reveal what’s going on; throw wary looks at the others in the airlock.

He takes an underling’s weapon and pistol whips me – shuts me up before I say anything more. Victory feels a lot like a broken tooth. Ow.

He has me hauled to the bridge. (*My* bridge, technically – I let it slide.) No one objects; Burns’s expression does not invite team input.

As soon as we’re alone, Burns rounds on me, growling threats too… /honest/ to be ignored. However, they aren’t aimed at me, which is new.

For a few seconds, I even can’t sort out who he’s angry at, let alone what he’s angry /about/. It’s not me, though, which — wait. Kaetlyn?

Now he’s talking about his son. Didn’t know he had a s- wait, what? What’s he saying about K- What? WHAT? Can’t talk when I’m CHOKING you?

He tries smashing something into my head, by my shoulder takes most of it. Fishes some aerosol accelerant out of a pocket. I get a faceful.

Shirt soaked in accelerant. I keep choking him. Don’t know where he gets the stim-lighter, but it reminds me Burns is a verb, not his name.

The blue-white brushtip shape of the lighter flame grazes my shirt; its ignition makes a hard WHUFF in the air. Adrenaline crashes into me.

Adrenaline encourages large gulps of air – *supremely* unhelpful when on fire, or coated in extinguisher foam. (Which I am, near-instantly.)

Burns could be stabbing me while I’m blinded and coughing foam, except… he is too. Lesson: don’t start (or be) a fire on my ship.

The foam smells like kids medicine – burns the skin. Ironic, that. Scooping it away from my eyes; shoving myself back against the helm.

No knife in my ribs, or bullet. Or shouted call to his troops. When I can see again, Burns is just sitting along the opposite wall. Moping.