OBT Forum

The chime rang, reverberated, rose to a crescendo and slowly died away. It was loud. Jan Olsen hated that chime. Another customer had entered his private place and that could only mean one thing, work. Grudgingly he rose from his disorganised desk, knocking the half-full glass of brandy over with a twitch of his hand. It was only ever half-full; a magical state which money and perseverance ensured.

He had not meant to be rich. Retirement from the Protectorate had left him with a modest sum, which he had invested in the facilities here. War had carried on; each day the Protectorate expanded its zone of influence and this innocuous rock had turned into a gold mine. A jump point had been found nearby, an unusual confluence of physics and impossibility. It was a nexus; warp space folded strangely here, allowing a myriad of connections and it had become depressingly important overnight.

Little men in grey suits had tried to buy him out, he had refused. Next followed threats, but Jan was not easily cowed. His aggressive demeanour, backed up by a heavy blaster and too many old friends had made them go away. That, of course, and the remains of an overzealous politician which he had nailed to the front entrance.

Eventually he had agreed to lease some of his spare land and the Protectorate had installed their research facility nearby. Things ran smoothly for a couple of years until there was no need, militarily speaking, for the nexus point. Battle fronts change, after all; a circumstance which Jan was comfortable with. He was granted the use of the assets now on his land, with only one condition; he must continue providing the service. This time his truculent nature was of no use, the Protectorate reminding him of exactly what they could do to him if they wished. So, he opened his new business, with his less than silent partner and the money just kept rolling in.

Trade was brisk. It was incredible the amount of people who were willing to pay for what, essentially was a one-way trip. They signed over all of their worldly goods to Jan, and his partner, knowing that there was no guarantee. To arrive here, they at least needed a referral and of course to be rich. All were old, many diseased, but with one thing in common; they did not want to die. The Protectorate’s facility gave them an option; die on paper and wait for the possibility of rebirth. No guarantee was given, no refund ever discussed and once you entered the facilitiy’s double doors there was absolutely no way back.

Jan did not ask what went on behind those doors; the staff was Protectorate recruited, as far as he knew military, and he just did not care. He had an unlimited supply of brandy, his own space, with only occasional interruptions. One of course was too many, but he could endure. The chime had signalled just such a disturbance and with bad grace he entered the reception area.

“Welcome. Please be seated. There are just a few formalities...” he began to slur before his brandy-fogged mind recognized the unusualness of the scene before him.

Something hard, metallic, wavered in his vision. He recognised and did not like it. There were too many people, at least six and all dressed the same. Jan recognised their uniforms and facial features and began to sober quickly. He tried again.

“Welcome...ugh”

The pain resulting from the harsh blow sharpened his senses. This was not how it was supposed to be.

“Be quiet!” This came from their leader, a harsh-faced woman. She was the one who had slapped him.

“Marti,” she continued, “are you sure that the cameras are off?”

“Sure.”

“Good,” she returned to Jan, grasping his brandy-stained shirt and pulling him towards her, “now where is it?”

“Here,” he mumbled, his knee slamming up between her legs, as his right hand curled round her throat, “but you’re not going to be happy...”

Her hair was long, tied in a pony-tail which he used to good effect, tearing hair painfully as he dragged her round. Drunk no longer, reactions took over. Changing his grip, his hand dropped to her belt, drawing her pistol in a fluid movement. His first shot took a startled Marti right between the eyes, his second blew a hole in another’s chest. They had begun to move, but shock had given him an edge. Jan booted his angry captive towards the tight clump of his remaining attackers; part of his brain laughing at the stupidity of huddling up so close together, even whilst he killed them.

As quickly as it had started, it was over, Jan standing over his first aggressor whose pitiful cries did not move him.

“You’ll be sorry,” she gasped.

“I already am,” he said, as he calmly squeezed the trigger.

The report had barely died away when the front door exploded inwards, throwing Jan back towards his office. Armour-clad figures raced in, spraying the area liberally with weapons fire. Half-conscious, Jan heard the snapped, “Take him!” just before a rifle-butt slammed into his head, relieving him of all the troublesome questions running through his mind.

Colonel Radimir Vladic stopped cursing and smiled. It was over. He had the heretic clearly in his sights. His hand hurt, but that was nothing in the greater scheme of things. Carefully he took aim, fired and missed, as the heretic rolled away from the shot and slid out into the void. He took one of the soldiers with him; a casualty of war.

Grinning, Vladic moved to the controls and punched in the firing sequence. The plan could not be stopped now. His name would be remembered.

*

Desperation is a funny thing; Jan’s choices were extremely limited. He took his decision quickly, grasping the still groaning soldier by his belt and taking him with him as he fell out of the ship. One of his hands half-worked, and it was the fingers of this hand which activated the contra gravity belt. It struggled with the extra weight but his feet caught over one of the stanchions helped. The upwards motion twisted him round, leaving one of his feet half in the bay and his torso crushed against the underside of the craft.

The wind tore his breath away, the soldier beneath him struggling for air. Jan saw the external hatch controls and clumsily punched the standard entry code. As the door slid open, the belt’s action pushed him chest first into the widening space, stripping skin from his face as he was forced inside. There was little chance of releasing his foot and he screamed in pain as ligaments tore in protest. He was inside, the soldier pushing him further, although incapable of joining him there. One more ridiculous decision to be taken; he entered the code to close the hatch.

A cry of agony was torn from him as his ankle broke, twisting at last free from the stanchion’s hold. He used his knees to effect, pushing up on the body below him, but it was taking too long. The door closure was mechanical, ignorant and uncaring of his predicament. He screamed once as his ankle was crushed between flesh and metal, his frantic movement and distorted bones releasing the bindings. One free foot was used to push himself up on the now terrified soldier, who grabbed onto his ankle. Jan screamed again. There was nothing he could do.

Momentary relief came as the door slid shut, cutting off both the soldier’s pleas and Jan’s right foot.

*

Colonel Vladic ignored the alarm flashing on the control panel; he was far too interested in the numbers counting down on the display before him. Soon, very soon, all of their wishes would be fulfilled. A beatific smile crossed his normally grim face as the bomb began to move forward, servo-mechanisms positioning it in its optimum launch mode. He laughed as it was elevated hydraulically and cried in salutation as its rockets fired.

The insistent alarm broke his jubilation. From the video feed inside the emergency capsule, he saw Jan Olsen as he lay bleeding out. Life was good. Perhaps the heretic could not physically join the bomb in its righteous journey, but he could at least share in its final deliverance. Grinning savagely, Vladic sent Jan to meet his fate.