Stranded on a Tiny Planet

Marooned

Merco lay motionless on the metal floor of his cargo hold. His vision was blurry, and he faded in and out of consciousness from the bloody head wound seeping down across his forehead. Pain throbbed oppressively across his beaten body, unwilling to give him a moment's peace. His eyes flitted open, catching blurred images of dim lights and two other figures inside the ship with him.

A faint glow of yellow drew his attention to his left arm which was a cybernetic prosthetic from the elbow down. The prosthetic forearm had a glowing metal band over the wrist; an inhibitor. The device was designed to cut off all signals that commanded the prosthetic to connect with his nerve endings. Whoever had slapped that on him knew how to immobilize his main source of defense, as the robotic forearm had thrice the power of his original organic arm. Without it he was an easy target.

How did they even know he had a prosthetic?

The limb looked like a long, black, leather glove over a normal arm. Only someone familiar with him would've known it wasn't flesh and blood. He grunted, willing the fingers to flex, but nothing happened.

It had all happened so fast; the attack on his cargo ship. His instruments barely had time to register the other ship before he was blindsided.

Should've been wearing my harness. Always hated wearing it.

The other ship appeared suddenly, rammed him, and the impact sent his head smashing into the metal frame of his front window, knocking him out cold. Now he was awake and didn't know what had occurred after the collision.

"Nice ship you have here, pal," an unfamiliar, young sounding, male voice commented just ahead of him in the cockpit seat. "Think we'll take it off your hands."

"The Hell you will." Merco growled, lifting his head off the floor.

The second figure stepped over to him and hoisted him up roughly by his short, dark, peppered hair, "Kinda mouthy for a dead man don'tcha think?"

Merco finally could see the face of one of his assailants. He was a Gret'nal, a giant, lizard-like humanoid bristling with spikes along his jowls, rough, grayish-green scales along his limbs, and a row of spikes racing down the back of his thick neck and spine. Behind, sharp, nonexistent lips were hundreds of small pointed teeth. His golden eyes slit menacingly. Not particularly pretty to look at. Even less pretty to go up in a fight against one.

"Now, now Gurt. Remember, we're not supposed to kill him." The pilot up front chided in a sly tone, "At least...not directly."

Merco winced as the scaly alien growled with irritation before dropping him on the deck plates.

"Who are you?" Merco demanded hoarsely.

He could just make out the back of the pilot's head but couldn't see the face. His voice wasn't unpleasant or very deep; more sly and reedy sounding.

"Oh, just some mercenaries looking to make bank for your carcass." The pilot commented offhandedly.

Merco blinked with confusion, "Mercenaries? But...why me? I'm not worth anything to anybody. I'm just a cargo ship pilot."

"And a former war hero." The pilot stated. "At least you were to the 'winning' side. However, our employer wasn't on the winning side."

A sickening ball welled up in Merco's stomach. The flashbacks surfaced briefly. Laser fire. Shouted, muffled commands ringing in his earpiece. Sweat in his eyes. Ground shattering explosions. The stink of blood. His blood. Someone else's blood. Immeasurable pain exploding through his left side. He couldn't feel his arm.