The Exile's Choice

Alaric Austin had never known a place so miserable as Raleigh 5. The red dust of the crumbling little satellite clung to his clothes, to the face of his oxygen mask, cutting deep into his flesh where it could. An ill-placed step was all it took to summon up a cloud big enough to swallow a man whole, of that he could attest.

By virtue of a carefully woven bloodline, he was an iron-boned titan of seven-foot-two with a muscled bulkiness that made him as well proportioned as any civilian, save for when they stood side by side. Dust-clouds tended to burst up around him with every step, ill-placed or otherwise, further aided by the moon's feeble excuse for a gravitational pull. For this, his current trek proved to be treacherous.

Crossing the moon's surface was nothing, of course, compared to navigating the furious sandstorms of Tar'Soom. His deployment on that cursed desert planet at been hellish, and yet he found himself missing it all the same.

There he'd been a warrior, a man of purpose, encased in armor uncrackable under all but the most dangerous of circumstances. He'd fallen far since then, now reduced to an exile in a second-hand oxygen mask that fogged from his breath, that threatened to shatter under the slightest weight, and chipped away in the dust-filled wind.

Besides, Tar'Soom had been a challenge, a game of survival. Alaric had an entire cohort to watch over, to get home to their families. But there was no challenge on Raleigh 5, no one to protect. No goal to reach but the moon's sole tavern, the glinting metal walls of which he could just barely see through the dust-filled air.

No one came to Raleigh 5 for the tavern, nor the dust. They came because they were running, hiding. Otherwise, the satellite would have been entirely shunned in favor of taking up residence on Sevigny, the fertile planet which the miserable red moon circled. It was a young colony, but already overflowing with human life. Its rich earth and crystal clear seas made sure of that.

In that way, Sevigny reminded Alaric of his own homeworld, and the red soil which covered its blooming surface. Dark red, moist and soft to the touch. Not dry. Not dusty and coarse. Not like Raleigh 5.

If he had received an honorable discharge as opposed to a disgraceful one, if he saw his service through till the end… Then he could have retired to a farmer’s life, and walk the rolling hills and red-grass fields of his homeworld again. He'd trade sword and gun for plow and tractor, and bring in a mighty harvest.

But such fates were not allowed to dishonored men like Alaric, veteran of two explorations and three short-lived insurrectionist wars... and destroyer of cities. The formers would be forgotten by history, if they hadn't already been, but his crime against sapient life would be remembered for decades to come, though not even half as long as Alaric would remember the screams of the locals.

It was for this act, and the discharge it earned, that Alaric chose self exile, retiring to live out his life on the miserable excuse for a moon. The moon which spun, at perigee, hardly more than 2,000 miles from Sevigny’s orbit, but seemed a hundred lightyears away. The moon where, as its only true selling point, nobody asked questions.

Alaric ducked and turned to slip through the tavern's outer door, waited for it to close behind him, then stripped off his mask. He took a few breaths in an attempt to accommodate himself to the mostly pure oxygen, then pushed through the secondary door.

He was met by the usual crowd of scowling faces, though none spoke a word as he walked past, his footsteps like thunder on the steel floor. All present, Alaric included, shared that silent vow of privacy. They were traitors, cutthroats, villains and similar kin, but their agreement was sacred above all else.

“Give me the regular,” Alaric told the barkeep, momentarily breaking the silence. The regular being water in the tallest canister available. An uncommon order at any other bar, but a staple drink for any sensible resident of Raleigh 5.

There were no rivers on the moon, no lakes. No wells. No rain.

Some level of moisture existed in the air, but no one had the patience or will to harvest it. Water had to be shipped in. And as the only legally recognized business on the little red satellite, the tavern had a monopoly on the stuff. You could say the place made more off water than any brand of booze, and you’d be right if only half the locals didn’t have bounties on their heads. When you’re marked for death, healthy living isn’t much of a concern.

No bounty had been placed on Alaric's head. So deprived of all reason, besides boredom, to drown his sorrows from dawn to dusk, he stuck with his dedication to sensible hydration. For the first few rounds, at least. Boredom had a way of rotting the mind, a suffering remedied only by conversation or alcohol. He preferred the latter.

A small screen over the bar was a secondary reason for coming to the tavern. Little news of the rest of the galaxy managed to crawl its way to Raleigh 5, but what did was televised above the tall shelf of alcohol filled canisters, often long after the rest of the empire already moved on to newer happenings.

It was as Alaric still nursed his first round of water, that word of the arrest, trial, and sentencing of military commissioned scientist turned terrorist Doctor Mikael Kalahban reached the tavern. A testament to Raleigh 5’s slow reception of not so current events, the reporter dated the occurrence two weeks before, despite the controversial series of events occurring just below on Sevigny.

“It best be a painful execution,” the man beside him muttered, awake from the drunken slumber he’d been subject to since Alaric’s arrival. He spat on the floor, earning a glare from the barkeep. “Just sorry I can’t do the deed myself.”

Alaric shifted on his stool, eyeing the drunk. He was bulky, with a belly fitting for his drinking habits, but apparently moral enough to see the crime in blowing up a hospital, or maybe he was simply too hypocritical to see the irony. Should I ask after his sins, he thought to himself, deciding against it in the end. That was a question, and there were no questions on Raleigh 5.

They were the only two at the bar, the other patrons scattered around at small tables, their chairs doubtlessly more comfortable than the stools at the counter. Big as he was, Alaric felt as if his seat would break every time he shifted his weight. But time after time, the bar remained his preferred place of refuge. It was tradition by now, to sit watching the delayed news while the tables filled up with drunkards.

“Haven’t seen him before,” his neighbor commented two drinks later, eyes looking past Alaric. “Don’t look like anyone we want neither.”

Alaric had heard the door slide open and close, as he had half a dozen times. Not one for paranoia, he didn’t bother looking whenever the whooshing sound reached his ear. But at the man’s comment, he shifted to see who exactly the drunk didn’t deem appropriate for the colony of thieves and killers. The answer was an unfortunate one.

A massive figure filled the doorway, encased entirely in black-plate speckled with white burns from shots undodged. An imperial knight, though missing both a cloak and sigil.

It was custom to receive one's cloak from the emperor himself, and to go without could only mean a knight was acting outside imperial law. A sigil, though, was borne on the shoulder-plates of a warrior’s armor, traditionally painted in red, and incorporating whichever far-ancient hellenic letter was associated with the bearer’s squadron. But any markings which may have once decorated the man’s armor were gone, painted over in black.

A knight turned bounty hunter, Alaric considered. Maybe there's a price on my head after all.

“Barkeep,” he said, repeating himself when the man ignored him in favor of watching the newcomer. “Get me something strong. Don’t care what, just get it poured.”

He downed the dark liquid in one gulp, hardly even feeling the burning in his throat, then slammed the can down. His hand slipped below the counter, grasping for the item he never went without, even if it was technically illegal for him to carry. A comforting feeling spread up his arm as he felt the sword-hilt secure on his hip. His fingers closed around it.

He stared straight ahead at the high shelves of brightly colored canisters which clinked against each other from the stranger’s earth-shaking footsteps. They fell heavier the closer the hunter got, and Alaric’s grip on his hilt tightened. 

“Leave,” came the filtered, monotonous voice through the knight’s speaker. “Now.”

The drunk beside Alaric remained seated while he drained what was left in his can, only standing once the deed was done. For a moment, Alaric thought the man might have a go at the knight, but he was not so foolish. With a grumble, the drunkard stalked off to find a new seat. Only then did the cloak-less warrior speak again, and his words were a surprise to be sure.

“A long way from home, Sir.”

Alaric’s grip on his sword loosened. He took in the warrior’s frame, noting it to be leaner than his own build of bulky muscle, even in the heavy metal. Impossible as it was, there was something vaguely recognizable about the giant before him.

“Show me your face, Lieutenant,” he said. All knights were lieutenants, and above, in the imperial forces. “I won't slay a warrior without knowing his face.”

The bounty hunter watched him through his red visor, then saluted. With a twist and a pull, the helmet released, revealing what was hidden beneath. Sharp and angular, an olive-skinned face smiled down at him.

“Jules!” He grabbed the man, pulling him into a hug, laughing as he slapped his armored back. “What are you doing here?”

Julios Lefebvre chuckled into his ear. “Looking for you.”

Alaric pulled back, eyeing the man he’d fought alongside for nearly a all his life. “Looking,” he asked, “or hunting?”

“Nothing like that,” Jules said, lips bending to a teasing smile. “If it was, you’d be dead already.”

“I’m sure.” Alaric pushed his old friend towards the bar, taking a seat and motioning for him to do the same. “I like the beard,” he said, “or whatever it is you’re calling that thing.”

It’s instinct for a man, when another comments on his facial hair, to stroke whatever grew on his face. Jules proved the rule constant when he ran a hand over his neatly trimmed black beard.

“Yours would look good, too. If you bothered to tend to it.”

Alaric’s red beard had grown wild since coming to the moon. He hadn’t kept it trimmed for the same reason he hadn’t kept shaven to begin with, there was no point in being well groomed on Raleigh 5. But feeling at it now, he was shocked how much it had grown. He’d gotten lost in jungles less thick.

“I'm in exile,” he said. “Might as well look the part.”

“Self exile,” Jules clarified. “From which I’ve come to free you.”

“Oh?” Alaric's forehead wrinkled. “And here I was thinking this visit was for some nostalgia trip.”

“A bit of both. But—" Jules fell silent, and Alaric followed his line of sight. The bartender was close, too close, as he made a show of polishing the never before polished countertop. "Hello?"

Alaric glared. “Got a question to ask, barman?”

The bald man wasted no time in scurrying down the bar.

“You were saying?”

“I was saying," Jules said, meeting Alaric's eyes. "I need your help.”

“What sort of knight needs the aid of a dishonored brother?”

“One who’s also dishonored.” Jules held up his left hand, and only then did Alaric realize that the metal fingers were not flesh and bone encased in a gauntlet, but the collection of steel and cogs making up a skeletal hand. “Crippled, actually. But there’s little difference.”

Voice steady as he could manage, Alaric asked simply, “How?”

“In the months after your discharge, we dropped down in some cursed jungle on Kova Prime.”

“Trappers."

Of all the armies Alaric fought, of all the absolutely insane monstrosities that tried to swallow him whole, nothing brought more nightmares than Jungle Trappers. The feeling of vines snaking around his body, squeezing tighter and tighter, the force bending his armor while his cohorts were digested by the plants. Their screams crept into his dreams more often than not.

“Trappers,” Jules confirmed, though he spoke no further on the event. 

Alaric wanted to ask what happened. They had been close, once. Close enough to share tales of wounds which scarred deeper than flesh. But that was then, and this was now.

“They discharged me,” Jules went on, speaking flatly. “Gave me a pretty medal, even flew in some minister of something or other to pin it on me. Shook my hand, my real one, and discharged me.”

“You’re a knight, not some shock trooper. ” Alaric could hear the fire in his own voice, low as he kept it. “They can’t take your cloak!”

Jules laughed. It was a short, cold thing. “They can if I’m obsolete.”

“You have a new arm, don’t you?”

“I was infected.”

“What?”

“The venom, it’s in me.” Jules looked away. “It burns. Was always told it would. How it would feel like your blood was on fire.” He twisted his head back and forth, as if he were trying to crack his neck. “That was an understatement.”

“There’s medicine. Isn’t there? To keep the pain away, to keep you alive.”

“It works well,” Jules said, "if you can afford it.”

“Your pension,” he started, but Jules cut him off.

“Still active, but it’s hardly a living wage.”

“Has the empire gone broke?”

“No, nothing like that. But I only served a decade.” Jules sighed. “Not including my childhood in military camps and labs, of course. No, I haven’t given enough to our noble empire. Fifty years of service is the requirement for decent pay, or a newsworthy accomplishment. I’ve done neither. Hardly get enough to keep this thing running properly.”

Jules held up his arm again, the artificial one. Alaric could now see how banged up it looked, how stiff and heavy. The steel fingers flexed, though by the tight look of Jules’s face, they were probably meant to close. But flexing was the best they could do in their poor condition, the small movement causing a quiet screech as the cogs struggled to work.

“I don’t have much...” A pod he rented a mile away from the tavern, and his armor which he’d not worn since they took his cloak. “But whatever I have, it’s yours.”

“I didn’t come here for a handout,” Jules snapped, facing him with bloodshot eyes. “I wouldn’t do that!”

“Alright,” Alaric said, hands held up in surrender. “Relax.”

“I’m sorry. The venom…” Jules shook his head like a wet dog trying to dry itself. “Look, I met someone. Someone who’s going to get me what I need.”

Alaric felt uncomfortable at the words. “At what cost?”

Jules leaned in close, looking like a child with a secret to share. “There’s a cargo ship leaving Sevigny,” he whispered, smiling. “We're going to raid it.”

Alaric laughed, loud and hearty. He laughed in a way he hadn’t since his discharge. In a way he hadn’t expected to ever again. A few looks came his way, but he didn’t care. Nobody asked questions on Raleigh 5.

“I’m not joking.”

Alaric fell silent.

“I think that venom’s getting to your head.”

“Yes,” Jules said, lips curling. “It is, that’s why I have to do this.”

“You speak of dishonor so easily?”

“I was honorable!” The shout silenced the hushed conversations around them, anyone who hadn’t already been watching surely was now. “We both were.” Jules' voice emptied of the previously present fire, falling to a cold tone. “We were noble little soldiers. We served, we fought, we killed. And what did it get us? You were expelled for following orders, and I risked my life to save a man. And for that they tossed us aside.”

“I know, I know.” Alaric ran his hands over his bearded face, his elbows banged against the countertop. “But I can't take part in thievery.”

“I’m not talking about robbing some old war widow, but taking what’s owed to us.”

“And what,” Alaric asked, “is owed to us?”

“Whatever’s on that transport.”

He rounded on his friend. “You don’t even know what it is?”

“No,” Jules said, casual as anything. “But whatever it is, someone’s willing to pay enough to save my life.”

Alaric stood. “Then good luck to you. But I won't shame myself any further.” He moved to walk away, but a set of robotic fingers seized his wrist. “Let go,” he ordered. “I mean it, Jules. Or I’ll relieve you of your other arm.”

“I feel it.” There was nothing left in Jules' voice as he spoke, as he begged. “I feel my blood boiling in my veins, my mind burns within my skull.” There were tears in his eyes. “I have no right to ask you, I know. But I can’t do this without you, Al. I can’t.”

Julios Lefebvre seemed so very small looking up at him, taking Alaric back to their shared childhoods and the vows they'd made in the darkness of their cell.

Alaric sighed, heavy shoulders heaving. A dozen replies weighed on his tongue, but there was only one he knew to be right.