The Predator of the Meadow

Vincent wasn't sure if he had ever woken from modification before this moment, and hoped he would have no memory of the alien world, the stone fountain, or the face of the enemy. The meadow knew nothing of memory and its close proximity was affecting his thoughts. Panthera had promised no memories of the war.

The rifle clip felt heavy in his hand and he started to wonder again why he held it. "If I am wounded," he said to himself, smashing the rifle clip against the fountain. He was overwhelmed with pain and smashed the rifle clip again. Vincent knew that his mind contained hypnotic instructions that were triggered by certain physical or mental conditions. "If I am wounded," he said again, trying to find the hypnotic implant that would release the lifesaving information.

But his mind was empty and restless with dominating instincts. "If I am bleeding," he said louder. "I am bleeding and don't have a medic!" he said forcefully, while managing to restrain his voice so he didn't draw attention. At last, blissful awareness cleared his mind. "If I am bleeding and a medic is not available, break the shell on a rifle cartridge. Use the liquid Compound Y from the breached energy cell to cauterize the wound."

Vincent smashed the clip again and then moved the leaking case over his wounds. When the fluid struck his flesh, it fused his blood, clothes and torn skin together. Although he was ready to howl in anguish and fury, the meadow had already returned to dominate his thoughts and the entire event was forgotten. It would never be remembered.

ON BECOMING FEROCIOUS

The sudden onset of spangled starlight forced back the deep violet and burgundy of cryogenic sleep. Vincent Wagner woke and found himself in the cramped confines of a dimly lit cockpit with bluish ice-vapor lingering just outside his faceplate. Four thick, serrated needles pierced his arm, drugging him with medication to flush sub-zero preservatives from his blood. The dull ache of ice flooded his veins and clouded his mind. Forcing his eyes open, he found himself in near darkness.

Vincent felt confident of his own identity and therefore deduced that his mind had not been overly damaged by cryogenic sleep. His confinement was the cramped cockpit of a Panthera deep-space fighter. Memories were hard won and his brain felt slippery to logic, though he remembered every detail of the cockpit. The displays were not lit and little was visible with the opaque sun shield protracted over the canopy. Dank quarters barricaded him inside with only murky blue shadows.

The only audible sounds chimed from his movements and he basked in the silence before disrupting the calm environment of the cockpit.

He lifted his hand to initialize the cockpit display and narrow swaths of small, white frost-forests were cut out from his gloves and forearms. When power coursed through the screens, soft, incandescent swarms of amber, yellow, and green light bathed the cockpit. The familiar surroundings warmed the chill in his blood. In the faint light, he could see that his flight suit was filthy, and he smelled of antiseptics and regrown flesh.

The frost quickly melted and coalesced into beads of water as the ship computer increased the cabin temperature. Vincent poked his finger through a hole in his suit just above his instrument belt. Both his trousers and blouse were punctured, but he only the felt warm, healthy flesh of his hip on the tip of his finger. He wondered if he had experienced a battle, and was then curious to know how long the military campaign had been going on. No dates or specific locations were provided, so Vincent could only muse.