Revenge

Nobody can hear a scream in the vacuum of space, or so they say. Michael Dinaris was proving that old proverb very incorrect. I watched him scream and curse as he flailed impotently in his space suit.

I pressed down on the intercom that connected his ship to his suit. "Michael," I said. He couldn't hear me through his own sobs. "Michael," I said louder. "Michael, listen to me." There was a moment of silence.

"Yes," he gasped. I knew that he was feeling the lack of air. He was gulping for what he thought were the last sips of oxygen. The mind is a powerful thing.

"I sabotaged the suit sensors,” I said. “You have two full tanks of air.”

“What?” his voice was wonderfully confused with just a tinge of hope. “Why?”

“Exactly,” I said. “But don’t worry,” I tried to pitch my voice into a soothing lull. I failed. The words came out sounding more psychotic than anything else. Fair, I thought. I’m feeling pretty psychotic. “I’ll get those answers. Just not from you.”

“I get it,” he cried desperately. “You’re angry. Upset.” Michael, I noticed on the sensors, was urinating in his fear. “We can work out whatever happened,” He said frantically – finally noticing that he was slowly drifting from his ship. “Jesus, throw me a tether.”

“Now why would I do that?” I laughed. There was no humor in the laugh. There wasn’t going to be any humor ever again. Michael and Maria had seen to that.

“You wouldn’t have filled up my tanks,” he stumbled over the words in his haste. “If you wanted me to die!”

“Michael,” I said. “Michael, Michael.” I paused. I could hear him gulping and sniffling. “I want you to take a long, long time to die. I want you to know your death is coming and there is nothing you can do.”

“No!” He screamed, arms and legs flailing. “Nooooo!” I turned off the intercom. The relative silence was broken by the gasps and moans coming from Michael’s wife. I turned the pilot’s chair toward her.

“You awake yet, Maria?” I asked as gently as I could. I looked her over carefully. Her face was a mess – bloody and swollen alongside her left temple where the wrench had smashed her into a concussed state. Blood drops hovered around her head like stationary satellites. I pushed myself against the chair and floated over to her, catching a handhold above her head. I tucked the wrench in my suit utility belt and slapped her gently. “Wake up Maria,” I said.

Her eyes opened, but appeared to be unfocused as she stared past me, pupils much too large. At least the eye that I could see. The other was swollen shut. She gasped in horror, and I followed her gaze. She was staring at her husband drift helplessly away from their ship. His arms and legs still helplessly, hopelessly waving around.

“Yes,” I told her. “That’s Michael floating away. He’s probably still screaming and blubbering, if you want to hear him.” I shook my head. “I wouldn’t recommend it.” She finally turned to look at me.

“Why? What?” She unconsciously mimicked her husband’s words. How sweet.

“Exactly,” I said again to the same questions. I paused and reflected. “Actually. I know the what.” I would never forget the what. My husbands. My wives. My two daughters. “I guess what I want to know,” I gripped her face with my hand, forcing her to stay looking at me as her eyes wandered back to her husband’s body. “What I need to know is the why and the who.”

“What?” she said again. Confusion fighting fear in her face and voice.

“The Linchpin,” I said roughly. Hollowly. I slapped her as hard as I could in zero g. It wasn’t very hard. The wrench had been a better weapon than my hand. “The little Surveyor that you pirated six months ago.” I pressed my fingers hard into the flesh of her face. She turned ashen white. “Ah,” I said. “You do remember.”

“How did –“

“No,” I said. “I don’t care about your questions. All I care about is why you targeted our ship? Why did you kill 8 adults and two small children? And since we didn’t have anything of value for you to steal, who hired you?”

“Get my husband back in,” she said. Her eye was focused again. Scheming again. “And I will tell you everything.” I pulled the wrench back out. I held it up for her to see. Her fresh blood glistened in the led light. Under her blood was the dark, dried blood of my daughters.

“You left this,” I said, holding the wrench close to her good eye. “You smashed the bones of my children with this before finally bashing their heads in. Ashley was 8. Rebecca, 10.” The light of calculation left Maria’s eye. “It was you,” I continued. “Not that idiot out there,” I used the wrench as a pointer to indicate Michael’s body. “You.” I brought the heavy metal wrench down on her thigh. She screamed in pain, bringing her hands down to protect her leg. “You will tell me who,” I continued, hitting a hand, busting it open. Blood droplets seeped out of her, hanging in the room. She screamed again. “You will tell me why.” Eventually she told me.

Later, I pushed her broken body to the airlock. She was crying and begging. I had kept her awake as much as I could. Stopping when she lost consciousness. Starting up again when she woke up.

“No!” she screamed. “No! Please, god, no!”

I closed the inner airlock door, muffling but not silencing her screams. I pulled down the lever that opened the outer airlock door. Still screaming, she was pulled out of the ship. Without air, her screams were instantly silenced.

“Well,” I said to the empty ship, “I guess you can’t hear the dying screams of a woman in the vacuum of space.” I watched her twisted, dead body float outside the window.