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Chapter 4 The Shadowclaw

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April 8th 2220, 2016 hrs

In a bus, 2 km from the Bondi Junction Interchange

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"...You shot yourself? How did you survive that?" The arctic fox inquired, his fear now quashed by his curiosity, despite the fact I still held his head. Most solemnly I responded, "That's the funny thing, I didn't."

"But how..." "Is that possible?" I interrupted, "I don't know, I knew that I could life forever, my body shows no sign of aging, I heal, I eat, but not age, for two hundred years I have lived in this corrupted body like it was frozen in time."

"But up until that point I never knew I could not remain dead. It seems Death has a catch and release policy towards me. But I don't want it". I told the fox, from his slightly side cocked head I could tell he had more to say on this... failure or exemption of the natural process I possessed. "But not dying... that's gotta be a good thing, right?" He questioned.

To this I grimaced so hard that the pain flared from the skin on the rims of my goggles as I asked myself. ‘To think that it would be cool, he has no idea how I would welcome the grand finale'. I responded to his inquiry, with grief and sadness mixing in slightly, to each heavy word I emanated in a shaky voice. "Kid, imagine if you would an ice cold glass of water at the end of a vast scorching desert, the only water you have seen for days, your so close but when you grasp it, it is sand. A pillar of sand worthy of mirage and imagine the agony you would feel in our mind, of such refreshment being just a trick of the mind. If you can imagine that then... you would know what it felt like when I came back after pulling that trigger."

He took notice of my tone, he could picture it, he tipped his head down slightly, and quietly in a near whisper he replies to me. "Why does it feel like that to you?" "I'll tell you why. To me hell is living amongst mortals, those who can pass on to the supposed after life. I wanted to go, to see my long-dead parents and sister, to see my beloved whole and complete, not the burned corpse that I saw last. My wife and child that came before her. Do you know how helpless I felt when I buried them, they died of old age and I was still frozen in this ageless vessel, how I felt when I realised I couldn't grow old with my woman, how I outlived my son. Even though we were estranged it would have been otherwise if..." I paused, tears threatening to break. Images of my own son stuck to that hospital bed, hooked to those machines that dragged out his life in his old breaking body while I held his seventy year wrinkled hand in my young freckled thirty year one, how I held it on his final breath and the heart monitors harsh tone filled my ears and vision, the beep blaring.

I held the tears in check as I went on "I wanted to be at peace that day, I had lived for long enough. When I came to I saw the STROLI doctors face with a scalpel and a spray mask ready to cut my body open. I screamed with my first breath, the same one I died to. Kid, you can live in pain and be blessed by paradise or despair, depending on the religion, at least those around you who you care and love for won't wither and die around you there. You have a reason to save your soul for it will be judged, I do not. I have killed, murdered, tortured, I have painted my heart black but my despair is that I will never be judged by God, I will not be able to account for the actions in front of the one who matters most, who created the soul. You have a gift of mortality while I'm cursed by the lack of it." With this I let go of his head, he slumped down in his seat, his ears twitched as he, I guess, contemplated what I told him.

After a few minutes of watching the patterns of his twitching, he blew out a breath. "Guess that's why you didn't fear my gun, you are already living a kind of nightmare. A hostage to life." "I never thought it like that kid but it does paint an accurate portrait of my situation, thanks for that kid".

I ended the conversation there by indicating to the Sheppard outside, who was seating in the cop car, to come over and deal with the twitcher, put him in cuffs or whatever I didn't care at this point. And without a word I rose and picked up my Drizabone coat from it's position of hanging over the chair I just left vacant.

Pulling it on I retrieved my gun belt from its previously concealed dangled position under my coat, the matte-black 12 inch Wildey, a carbon copy of the one I lost that day when I killed Liz with all those years ago, poked out from the long dark brown holster along with the MAG-D. I belted this on over my light blue jeans with the gun on the right leg like those old western cowboys and the MAG-D on the left hip, and furled the Driz-A-Bone so that it concealed the massive gun once more. With all this clobber on I looked like one of the stockmen that rode the mountains around the Snowy River, even down to the flannelette shirt.

My attire sorted I rose to the full extension of my 7'10" height, my Akubra hat adding another centimetre or two to my impressive and wide figure, thanks to my shoulders and muscular frame, I'm no body builder but it's enough to make them notice. My hat brushed the top of the bus as I rose the youth out of his seat and lead him down the aisle to the waiting German Sheppard cop, his partner was in the car for at some point it had started raining, not enough to make you run for it but heavy enough to make one walk more quickly to shelter. He saw the look on my face as I passed the former hijacking white fox to his waiting cuffs, a mix of the thousand yard stare and the want of the comfort from a woman or, if one is not available, the bottle. Something, anything to make one forget one's life for a little while.

The canine cop knew from experience that a person wearing a look like that should be left unmolested and did not ask me for a statement, being a STROLI has it's little perks after all, and just let the tall and legendary Bushman walk by and on his way as he gave the usual "You have the right to remain silent" crap to the arctic fox in his hands as he bundled the white fennec into the back of a nearby paddy wagon and was driven off into the night to Bondi station for processing.

The rain came down harder, at least it kept the media hoard from seeing me as I passed by the cop, moved down the street and just kept walking. The drumming of the water drops on the Akubra's brim soothing the memories drawn to the light by my heart to heart to the foiled crook. Soon the rain was bucketing down, the water cascading down the back of my hat and forming it's own waterfalls of the Drizabone coat, aside from a sudden bit of spray I was completely dry under my gear. The water on the ground took flight a little bit with every footfall of my heavy booted feet.

It was about the time for dusk but the heavy water-laden clouds high above the tall buildings blocked out the light from the city's sun. Not a problem for me, my genes allowed me to see much more clearly than normal, even through the goggles, and my eyes illuminated the light sourced from street lamps and the gaudy neon signs of the buildings flanking the road. To a normal person the street would be dark with a view pillars and clouds of light every few yards but each dark spot to me was well lit. Those who hide in the darkness could not hide from me, the odd whore and drug pusher; the homeless huddled in their cardboard cities, all human and fur plus the odd scaly. Yes even a city as high standard as Sydney has its rats hiding in its immense size.

The dark got darker as I just walked for an hour in the dense rains. Soon I walked all the way to Bondi Cove, the famous Bondi beach within it served only as the seabed as the sea level rose by two meters in time past. I just stood against the steel rails that ringed the cove and gathered myself from my memories of that day long ago when I realised that Death could not put me on his list of victims no matter how fate tried to provide him with my name. I have been beaten, shot, tortured, blown up in half and decapitated. Each death more gruesome than the next and each time I have never crossed over. How fucked up is that.

From my musings I decided to go home, to delve into the only thing that could put my memories at rest for a while at least. Arm out and the water dripping I hailed a taxi. The black boxy Holden sedan with ‘Premier Cabs' on the side came to the curb, splashing the massive puddle in the gutter all over me, my reflexes coming to the fore by allowing my to put head down so my Akubra to the brunt of it before the first drop hit my face. I soon opened the back door and sat on the seat within. The driver turned back to me, an Anthron specie member similar to that of a 50-year-old golden furred leopard from what I could tell. After over a century it was still hard for me to place their species, eventually the marsupials, they look the same, as well as the canines and the felines and the reptiles, well you catch my drift. "Where to," From his jagged accent I could tell he came from the Al'Cothe system, a place whose liveable planets can only be compared to a mixture of Brazil's tropics and the deserts of the American West, "NSW Spaceport, Sandecker Gate" I respond to his inquiry.

It took an hour to get to the spaceport, located on an artificial island between Sydney and Newcastle, five kilometres off the coast; it is the largest manmade island in the pacific. Measuring fifteen kilometres wide east to west and ten north to south it is it's own little city, its size justified by the fact that it is one of only two spaceports in the lower hemisphere, the other one in the state of south Africa of the African Union. One gets there via air or by the two six lane road bridges from the mainland. The Island is a cluster of control, administrative and maintenance buildings in an L shape 3 kilometres deep with the long end of the L to the north and the shorter end on the west. The rest of the area consists of Pads, private hangers, cargo areas as well as a dry-dock in the southeast corner and roads that connected it all crisscrossed the entire area. Sandecker Gate was an entrance to the main port area in the islands southwest corner next to the Sandecker Hotel and Pub. A famous stopover for space pilots, manly cargo haulers or military types, who want a good break or leave period on terra firma instead of the main stations that circled the globe or Lunar Station on the Moon's surface, some nights I frequented the pub but tonight was not one of them, I just wanted to go home.

Trevor, one of the gate guards, was in the small guard station in front of the 30-meter high perimeter fence the gate was set in. A 24 year old human, white but with a tan common with surfers with a cheery face and blue eyes, blond hair topping his 5"5' frame. This time of night he was at the gate then fucking his Anthron Cheetah girlfriend in the bunkroom out back, he was at his chair sporting a black eye. From his slouched posture I could tell he was not in the mood for or casual banter so I rolled down the window so he could see me, he could tell from my own slumped posture that I did not want to talk either, without further ado he pushed the switch to open up the 5 meter high gate. "Drive on mate, I'll point you to a hanger". The leopard nodded and continued on.

"Take a left, then a right, follow the road to the A Section Hangers and look for the one with the number two on the door". I told my yellow and black spotted friend at the wheel, all I got from him was another nod, evidently when the meter was running the Anthron was all business. Another few minutes and we got to the hangers I specified, their main doors faced to the north with their backs towards a radar station, the little compound was a kilometre north east of the Sandecker Gate. Pulling next to the small door, with a small 2 on it, in the massive ones of the hanger I got out and handed the leopard the 60 dollar fare in GTSA credits, a currency universal in the modern days of the Alliance and her members, and walked to the keypad next to the door. A quick few key presses and in I went, a little glad for the respite from the rain, I unbuttoned my Drizabone and gave it a few shakes to get the excess water off before gazing on my pride and joy, my home.

It was a spacecraft, a large one. A prototype long-range patrol heavy corvette that was too expensive to be mass-produced was my reward for a moonlight job in rescuing the CEO's daughter of the Mass Starship Industries a few years ago. It was 160 meters long from nose tip to the two side, vertically mounted engines. 50 centimetres off the ground thanks to it's landing struts it's main body was two and a half stories tall, about 9 meters, box shaped and 40 meters wide. The dual wings at the back, 10 meters in front of the 30 meter engine cowlings stuck out a further 20 meters either side helped atmospheric flight, connecting both at the tip was 35 kilometre range Antimatter Phased Plasma Gun MKII with its long 70 meter barrel in between.

At the base of each of the four wings though were the openings for the Assault cannons, a plasma based swarm gun that fired six plasma bolts at a time in a hexagon formation, handy for close in work at 12- kilometre ranges, and in between the wings themselves above and below the cannons were the quad pack missile batteries. At the front, the ship angled into the middle to provide the mount for the emitter for the 3 km ranged Antimatter stream and the ships detachable command section, a ship in itself equipped with a pair of quad light-phased plasma guns under the chin of the windows of the A shaped section, sat atop the emitter. All over both conjoined vessels were strategically placed holes for the heavy-duty grade manoeuvring thrusters. The hidden feature of the craft was a pair of detachable two man fighters hidden in the top hull both smaller versions of the main craft at 21 meters long and 10 meters wide. Indeed this vessel was a thing to be feared, especially since it was completely black, her name "SHADOWCLAW", the personal craft of The Bushman, and his home.

I drew in her sleek lines, if an old Blackbird and a Nighthawk stealth fighter had a child and that child was obese than that was the Shadowclaw. I rose up her ramp to the airlock in front of the left wing, if you went through the right door you would go to the cargo bay, but I went left and went to the multipurpose common area. A 20 long by 30 wide meter area that could function as a gym, a mess or a theatre, practically anything with it's fold away furnishings in the ceiling, floor and walls. I checked that an armoured hatch on the stern wall of the common room (same as the airlock) on the starboard side was locked still as it led to the ships extensive armoury.

Satisfied I faced to wards the bow, I saw the set of stairs in the middle of the common room's front bulkhead, flanked on the port and starboard by a hatch each side, the port went to the med bay, while the starboard went to the crew quarters. My bed was there but first I had to check the cores.

I rose up the small stairs to through ceiling (or floor) hatch to the upper level junction, the hatch to the command section (CS) was down a small 5 meter hall way in front of me but since I wasn't going to fly I instead headed around the chest high railing of the hatch's rim, the height of both decks left my head comfortably clear of the ceiling, towards the hatch behind it, the words ENGINNERING emblazed upon it.

The small hiss of the sideways opening hatch sweetly familiar, as does the long hallway that led to the yellow and black stripped doorway of the main engineering control room at the back. Either side were three doors; facing stern, the ones at the far end led to the fighter access airlock, handy when they detached or acted as emplaced defence turrets, the latter role popped the docking rings clear of the hull to allow the turret fighters to swivel. The middle set led to the computer core on the right and the workshop on the left, the closest pair towards the hatch I was standing at served as a storeroom on the right and the topside docking hatch/airlock to the left. All of the labels on describing what each room's role was flashed by as I passed them, through the main engineering door I walked and through the window of the room under which the controls that regulated the systems of the ship I saw the cores.

Four fist sized spheres of pulsing blue and white barely filled the middle of the 50 cm diameter hollowed sphere sections of see through cubes in which they were contained, each cube consisted of circuitry differing in colour to describe each cores role, considering 400m frigate would have just one of these fusion cores, maybe two, it made things easier for maintenance. From the top left, clock wise; was red for weapons, blue for shields and related subsystems, yellow for engines and thrusters, and green for utilities. Scanning the systems panel all indicators were normal, this was crucial as a reactor could make a big bang if it failed and it didn't require me to pass through the side doors next to the window into the maintenance crawl spaces to make a manual shut down of the cores.

Satisfied that the cores were within the norms for stand by mode I found out by the ship chronometer that it was getting close to ten o'clock, and with nothing left to occupy my mind, the memories returned.

My son's hand on his death, my wife's mangled body in the car wreck that should of killed us both. The holes of my sister, shot by a fan of her music when she broke off the band, she was left for dead for two days, the maggots feasting in her wounds, the stench of death. Of one soldier on an op against Speciest militants whose head was blown away after I told him to have a quick look above a wall, I saw the mass of ragged flesh atop his jawbone. To my last love all those years ago, her burning pyre, the dance of death as she turned from my white scaled goddess to a burning demon of fire. "Oh, my god Liz" I say to that memory in a ragged pained breath, hunched over the system panel, tears streaming, "You and I would have lived together for a thousand years, your race lived long, why couldn't you?" The memories overwhelmed me, the nightmares through my head. In any situation I would always be cold and calculating, a pillar of ice giving nothing away but chills to my opponent but, since that day in Alaska, when I was sure I could end it with the bullet form the Wildey at my side... when I came back I was still cold but when alone, for the last ten years a quivering wreck was I.

There was only one thing I knew that stopped the mass wave of despair that crashed upon me each night, alone on my craft. Vision blurred from the tears I ambled back to the access corridor, bypassing the command section, down the stairs and back into the common room. The hatch marked "CREW QUARTERS" was my goal. I pause as I gain my balance on the hatches frame. I saw the corridor, the middle of the hall on the left gained access to storage and laundry and the two bunk room doors inset in the right wall with the hygiene facilities beyond them, but the hatch at the far end was the one I seeked in my grief. "CAPTIANS QUARTERS", my room, a four wide by 7 long meter suite with a desk at the far end under the rectangular viewing port, it wasn't big but like all the rooms it could fit the nine foot bed. The storage closet to the far side of the room, around my bed was what I crawled across the bed for, the case inside provided liquid relief, the replicators unique to my ship made a perfect copy of food and drinks with nutrition, taste, look, smell, but the grog from it did not drown my nightmares. I open the case, hands shaking as I reach the ladies, the raunchy green scaled snake fems that decorated the label of the potent whisky of Cal ‘chi 3, the whisky would put the most hard drinking man on his arse with one shot, but I downed them by the bottle.

Finally my hands grasp two of the large bottles, I toss my Akubra towards the desks general direction, pop the cork on one and toss it away, and necked the bottle. Each gulp of the burning liquid put me further into the hangover grave but I just wanted to drown them. Each guzzle made my pain blur, made it less grave. By the second bottle I was completely drunk, a normal man would be dead, I reached for the third, not caring about my liver as it would just repair anew, as every fucking thing in me did, but not around me, never around me. I could heal myself from death while those I loved burned, withered, shot, and died while I still fucking lived. I was still sobbing into the bottle, each gulp accompanied by a moan of drunken pain but with each one the pain lessened, my nightmares couldn't surface from the lake of booze and I could sleep.

I slackened, the liquid drug doing it's job, 1000 dollars each bottle cost, a bloody expensive sleeping pill but it's all I had. The tears keep pouring; I tore of the goggles to let them flow unhindered to mix with the amber fluid staining the bed sheets. I kept drinking; sipping from it's glass lips, then I started laughing. First a chuckle then a giggle then a full on series of guffaws. My pain replaced with memories golden; playing with my son, seeing him swing while I sat on with my wife, well before Liz.

Then to when I meet Liz on the STROLI range, giving her tips on long range shooting, our first interrogation, we did the dance in that room as if we were both parts of the same machine, to the day before her death. Oh, those ten years built up to such completeness I lacked when I lost my first wife, in that tent we both danced again, the most sacred dance. Her scales scraping against my bare skin, we thrusted, moaned, tossed and turned under the sleeping bag, Her cries of passion mixed with my grunts of excitement, to our matched screams of ecstasy at the finale. My tears and laughter finally stopped as I smiled to the memory of her looking at me, the love deep in her eyes.

Once again I was in a liquor-induced peace, in which I finally succumbed to slumber.

Fin. (For this part of his story)

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Authors note;

If you want more details of The Bushman's equipment, read the weapons entry of my journal, there you will find a few more snippets of his history, as I integrated more weapons into his tales I may upgrade the list.

The Bushman