surrender ; minsung

absence

In space, there are no 'police.' There may be regional or planetary forces on assorted earths — soldieries, vigilantes, mall security — but their power has boundaries, and their surveillance can be avoided.

That is, unless a merchant commander forgets to check if there are police on a particular planet. Specifically, highly-armed anti-merchant task forces.

But only idiots would make that mistake.

Minho and his company burst out onto the street, sacks of cash slung over their shoulders, weaving between cars and solarbikes. A gunshot rings out and a glowing-white bullet flames over their heads, setting an unsuspecting hotdog cart on fire. The evening crowd breaks into a mad dash for safety, and the merchants slip down a narrow alley, ducking under laundry lines and jets of soapy steam.

"Plan reset!" Minho hisses into the com on his collar. "Emergency pickup! Complex west of target zone, rooftop — now!"

A soldier skids around the corner, draws his gun and fires. Minho flings his loot forward and it explodes into flaming hundred-dollar bills. Minho returns fire while his company flees. He can hear the roar of the Ender overhead. Thank God.

He follows his crew up a rickety fire escape and through an open window. A family screams, nearly overturning their table as the band clambers through the apartment, into the hallway, looking for the stairwell. A five-storey climb and they're spat out onto the roof; the Ender is hovering above, transport bridge waiting.

They're off spaceward as soon as the bomb bay is closed. Everyone is doubled over or crumpled on the ground, gasping for breath.

"Well." Minho wipes the sweat from his forehead. "That could have gone worse."

No one responds. They're displeased with him. Which is fair.

"At least we didn't lose everything," he reasons. "And no one was hurt. Excluding a few hotdogs."

"Yes, sir," a crewer says neutrally. "We'll take our gains to the vault. Plenty of room there."

Pointed. And also fair. "Go on then."

His crew files out and Minho falls into a crouch, dragging his hands through his hair. He's an ass — a failure, and over such a basic detail. He has no one to blame but himself. For everything.

"Drop me at the nearest tavern," he says into his collar. "Right away. Please."

He alights in front of an inn and pushes through the batwing doors. It's crowded, a thrum of conversation over billiards and booze. Minho marches up to the bar and orders a tray of shots. As a start. He doesn't much care what he's ordering — if it dulls his mind, it's good enough.

He leans forward on the bar and lets his eyes wander over the crowd. There's a couple laughing loudly over ale. A group playing darts. Another two tucked in a dark corner, whispering in each other's ears.

There's someone with messy black hair and a suit dark as void.

Minho straightens in his seat.

Then they turn around. No. Not him.

Never him.

Minho orders a round. He plays billiards with someone. Loses spectacularly. Orders another round. Spots more black-haired strangers in the crowd.

He sits outside the inn for a while, head between his knees. Stop trying to find him.

He roams the streets, walking on unsteady feet. The city curves in overhead, rubbing its eyes all over him. He doesn't want to go back to the ship, back to his chamber. It echoes while he tries to sleep. A memory lies in his bed, eyes drowsy and lips flushed with kisses.

Eventually his com crackles. He forgot he had it on. "Commander Lee? Are you still... taking a recess?"

Minho wanders around waving his arms on the empty street until the Ender appears overhead. A cord drops low enough for him to catch and tows him aboard. He sits on the bomb bay floor and raps himself against the skull, willing the shame and alcohol out of his blood.

When the door to his chamber slams shut, he stands in the silence for a moment, then turns around and walks out again.

A few crewers are smoking in the wheelhouse. Minho stands idly next to his pilot, observing the cloudy haze beyond the glass.

"Is something the matter, sir?" the pilot asks.

"The matter? No."

"Do you have someplace else to go?"

"No. I'm just—" He leans on the dashboard and accidentally turns on the hazards. "Shit."

Jha turns them off for him. "You seem slightly... distressed, sir."

"I'm slightly drunk."

"Apart from that."

"What is this, group therapy? I'm fine."

"Frankly, I think you're in disarray."

"That's some gall for someone I could can on a whim."

Jha is fidgety, more than usual. "I'm trying to make a decision, sir. A decision which rests on whether you are actually fine or not."

"What the hell are you talking about?"

"Today's raid was a failure. Why?"

Minho clicks his jaw. "Human error. I forgot to case the target zone."

"You never forget things like that."

Minho laughs, loud and humourless. "Apparently I fucking do." He stumbles against the dashboard; the hazards blink on again. "Goddamn it!"

Jha turns them off, looks up at him squarely. "I have something for you."

"More words of wisdom?"

"No, sir." They reach into their breast pocket and pull out a folded piece of paper. "Commander Han left it for you."

The name crashes into him. He grabs the note and and reads slowly, holding on to the voice in his head.

Minho,
I will never tattoo the wound you left me with
even if I manage to endure it.

And Minho falls to a million tiny pieces.