Page 83 of Mutant Mine

We are not out of the darkness yet. The rest of the crew do not see Rory’s small hand find mine as we walk on, side by side.

* * *

WE MAKE STEADYprogress through the ship. All of us are careful to tread lightly, even those who are injured and limping. We are slower than I would like — but it is better to be slow and quiet than fast and loud. Our destination is the landing dock, where the shuttle will be coming in.

Something disturbs my hearing. A group of men are ahead of us, about to come around the corner. Perhaps… five of them.

I get just enough warning to turn towards the crew. Letting go of Rory’s hand, I gesture for them to get behind me and stay back.

The prisoners ahead have a flashlight. Clearly they, too, have been helping themselves to the deceased crew’s supplies. As they round the corner, a pool of light scans the corridor —and falls on us. They all jolt as our figures, standing stock still, appear suddenly from the darkness.

After the initial jump, the men squint at our figures in the circle of bright white light.

“Roth?” one of them calls. His tone is tentative. I am not the most reassuring figure to meet in the dark.

I say nothing.

Then the men look behind me. They see the crew in their recognizable uniforms, the stun-guns clutched in their hands, and the duffel bag of luggage over my shoulder.

“What the fuck is this?” asks the man with the flashlight. He looks at the sign on the wall nearby, which points the way to the landing dock and the escape shuttles. “Are you leaving? You’re fucking leaving!”

I grit my teeth. We are so close. They are not stopping us now.

The five men never really had a chance. I may be large, but I am light on my feet, and fast. They are few, surprised, and disadvantaged by the dark — once I have knocked the flashlight to the ground.

Carving through them is as easy as running a warm knife through butter.

Bones crack beneath my fists. There is blood on the ground. I just have to make them be quiet. First one man, then the next, then the next…

“Roth…” Rory whispers behind me. “Roth!”

Her quiet plea is as loud to me as a shout. The sound of her fear brings me back to myself.

Fighting like an animal is a familiar mode. It is how I have survived for years. But it is time for me to begin finding my way back to my human self. That mandoesstill exist within me, no matter what else was taken away — or added. Rory has shown me that.

Taking a deep breath, I force myself to go still.

The prisoners are scattered on the floor around me. They are unconscious and bloodied, but thanks to Rory, they will live.

“I’m glad he’s on our side,” mutters one of the crew. Someone snorts a nervous laugh.

The flurry of sound was loud but brief. Cries and wet thumps in the dark, before they fell silent. Thankfully, we are at the end of the ship where the prisoners rarely go. Listening for a moment, I can hear no one else in the immediate vicinity.

“Come,” I murmur. “It is clear ahead.”

We move faster the rest of the way, all of us tense now. As we get closer to our destination, we also move deeper into danger. The landing dock is close to the bunk rooms and the canteen, where the majority of the men now sleep.

We have almost made it. But I can feel so many more lives here. So many breaths and heartbeats, and the small movements of sleeping bodies, vibrating in the air. It is difficult to distinguish one from the other.

That is why it surprises me when we round the corner and see a man, right in front of us. He is asleep on the floor in the middle of the corridor, illuminated by the pool of light that spills out of an open door.

I hold out an arm to stop the others, and hold one finger to my lips —quiet.They nod.

We creep closer to the man. He continues to breathe the slow, steady breaths of sleep.

The open room behind him is a crew welfare room that has clearly been re-purposed. The men seem to have been using it as a makeshift bar. Next to the beverage machine are a scattering of empty bottles, some still containing a few inches of clear liquid. A familiar, potent smell rises from the bottles: alcohol. Some resourceful man must have managedto concoct a brew using ingredients from the kitchen. In every prison I have been in, there has been someone making a fine living from mastering this skill.

Men are sleeping in the room: slumped on the floor, in chairs, and even across the table. Drinking cups are scattered around them, as well as empty food containers and playing cards. They must have told the computer to keep the lights on, and all eventually passed out.

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