The water ran slowly over Maris' legs. It poured in, then out of his now punctured armor, passing through, unable to cause any more damage then had already been done. He kicked his legs out, watching the waves rush away quietly. The novelty of this still amused him. Normally, the force enhancers within his armor would cause a small tidal wave to fire from his legs with such a kick. Now there was nothing-nothing extraordinary anyway.

Maris wanted to lie back on the smooth rock beneath him. He wanted to lie back and look at the sky with just his eyes. Not with x-ray or infrared, or night vision, or any other of the multiple arrays that he used to be able to set his iris' to. But he couldn't. Even without the med system screaming its warnings in his ear, he knew that his back was irreparably damaged. He had barely managed to sit up the first time and rest like this.

Allowing his body to prop up against the last of his armor's spine, the massive amount of painkillers and brainteasers that the dying armor, in one last dying effort, had pumped into his body prevented him from feeling the pain that would surely kill him. But they could do nothing to combat the fact that his muscle tissue was destroyed, his spine probably devastated. Nor could it stop the blood that was seeping out through several of the holes in his suit, down the rock he came to die on, and into the very river that had nearly killed him.

He had debated trying to actually last it out-let his body just die around him, his brain too drugged to realize that its ride was over. He thought that it might be interesting to just lose body function part-by-part, organ-by-organ. He wondered if he'd even feel the piss running down his leg as his body surrendered, or if the warm sensation would pass unnoticed by his nerve-dead body.

Deep down, he assumed this might be something like the way they used to describe what happened when you were killed with a guillotine. Your head is ripped from your body, but is somehow still alive for a precious few seconds. If you're lucky, you will roll over and be able to see your headless body in those final seconds, and you'll have some understanding of what has passed. Otherwise, you will die in confusion, wondering why you can't scream, why it doesn't even hurt as your vision begins to fade.

But then his sense of duty overrode the powerful effects of the drugs. He was in a war after all . What would happen if the enemy came, hunched over in their horrible way, while he lay pitched over the side of the rock, a vegetable, waiting for his brain to finally register the fact that it was over? No. While he lived, his recall chip would still be functional and would be too valuable to risk capture. He had tried to delete it, but even that part of his armor was dead. He thought it was ironic that all those precautions that he spent weeks training for-his auto-destruct, his deletion abilities, his beacon, even his damn six million dollar piss pot-were ruined. All these things that were supposed to save him from long hours of torture, prevent capture entirely, or just allow him to piss in a dignified manner were useless. Instead, he was left with pretty much what everyone else through time had been left with: his hand, a weapon, and death in a pool of blood and urine.

He looked down at his hand where his plasma cannon rested without feeling it. Normally, the weight and feel comforted him, but not today. It was odd how his body worked, and he didn't even bother to understand it. He could move his arm and his thumb, but couldn't feel his palm and the other two remaining fingers. Maybe the other two went into shock when their neighbors were rudely torn away, he mused to himself. He mentally thanked his thumb for being so tough and understanding so that he still had a finger to pull the trigger with. They didn't answer, but he expected that. All the drugs had made them fairly rude. Glancing down at his fingers gave him the sudden urge that his toes were getting jealous from all the attention his hand was getting. He did the only sensible thing.

"This little piggy went to the market, this little piggy went home, this little piggy had roast beef. . ." He stopped mumbling after realizing that the piggies weren't doing anything at all. He tried vainly again, but his piggies were stuck. "Wee wee wee," he sighed quietly to himself and looked back at the river.

Something was floating down towards him, bouncing along in the current. He watched curiously as the object got closer. It bumped off a rock and suddenly swung over at him, now caught in the same current as what was passing through his leg armor. Maris watched as the large clump of brown hair floated past his right leg, then ceased moving as it caught his other. A small pool of red trailed from the back of the head, evidently leaking from the severed neck.

"Hello Anthony," Maris said congenially as the current spun the head over, positioning Anthony's torn face upright. "I was hoping you could watch me die, but it looks like you have no more eyes."

Maris giggled in what was now becoming a low slur. His mouth seeming almost to rebel from the words it was being forced to utter.

"Instead, you will have to listen. So, listen close, Anthony. I don't want you to miss this," Maris mumbled as he brought his pistol to his mouth. "Good-bye, Tony," he said around the barrel of the pistol, and with his one good finger, pulled the trigger.

Anthony, now freed of the leg blocking his path, slowly wound down the river, listening quietly to the peaceful lapping of the waves as the gun's retort faded over the background.

Copyright 2000 Harry Raden

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