Jimmy cowered in the dark bar bathroom. He had been in there for hours now, locked in, tears streaming down his agony etched face. He summoned the courage to look in the mirror again. He felt the cool steel against his head, the small plasma firearm barrel had been against his temple, under his chin, and even in his mouth over the past six hours. They had all died, and it was all because of him.
The San Antonio had never made its return from the dangerous scrap field. A frantic mayday had been received, the Hegemon mining ship breaking into unrecognisable chunks within moments as an unmarked "Bullmastiff" pirate transport tore it to shreds, in full and plain view of the amenities bar and workshop crew on their meal break.
The Skip.Raider had then skipped away, employing some sort of stealth shroud. The pilots of the San Antonio had complained several times of technical problems with their equipment, but had agreed to make the dangerous trip anyway. Two of those on board were personal friends, their passing to be etched in the mind of Jimmy Predsman as the opening act of his ultimate failure. Their final wails replayed in his head, over and over again.
Only now had it dawned on Jimmy how much trouble they were in. Only now did it compute that all of these people were at his mercy, all 950 of them including crews, and anyone who uncovered them, the risk he had brought upon them so great it was incalculable. The possibilities were endless, the Navy or any lawful agency could turn up with potentially enough firepower to end them all. They were surrounded by enemies, they were vicious and unforgiving, some tactless and brutal. Others would wage the battle of will, mentally subjugating him until he gave in. He was showing the strain of these battles as he looked into sunken eyes rimmed with the blackness of one who had not slept properly in weeks.
It would be one hell of a show. The weapons grid had been plagued with problems, but was recently repaired and ready to retaliate against anything that came close. He had relinquished command for the moment to one of a more stable mind. That left him free to try and sort out this huge mess of death. One more would not make things any better. But there would be more death before the end.
The pistol made a loud grating noise against the ceramic of the washroom basin as Jimmy dropped it. He owed them too much to take the easy way out. Somehow, he had to fight to the end, to the bitter end... No matter how bad that end may be.
He turned the tap, splashing the cool water on his slick grimy skin. He could reach out, few were willing to aid him but they were there. The trouble was knowing who could be trusted and at what cost that trust would be. He looked again into his own eyes in that bleak washroom mirror, the glaze of blind rage and mourning gone, his determination rising, the focus returning...
