Flight of the Peregrine

It was supposed to have been an easy delivery. Unusual, exotic even, but no hassle. Transport some cargo from Point A to Point B. Sure, the cargo this time was livestock, strange but not unheard of. But this was a single, glorious specimen. From what Xavier had been told, it had a pedigree that rivalled that of some of the last remaining human monarchies on Earth. It was a bull, with a shining coat of short, black hairs, so dark as to be iridescent, like oil on water, worth more than the ship that carried it. Beneath that fabulous coat, its muscles bulged and rippled with every breath, like some small imitation of the cosmos through which it now floated, inky blackness marred by small bursts of transitory color and hidden strength. That alone had nearly given him pause, the sheer power in those muscles barely restrained by the flesh that covered them. But, when they'd loaded the creature, it had been well tranquilized, its breathing slow, sedate.

Some absurdly rich asshole had a pleasure planet where he indulged in all manner of extravagances. He styled himself, and much of his planet as a slice of nineteenth century Spanish nobility. Xavier had heard that he had not a drop of actual spanish stock anywhere in his ancestry, but that hadn’t stopped the man. “The Spaniard,” they called him. His planet had been scattered with dozens of expansive villas that could have rivalled the most decadent examples on Earth. Each carefully aged into that timeless stage of a classic building, despite having been freshly constructed within just the last few years. Marble steps exactingly worn down, as though tred by generations of servants and nobility, metals patinated just so. And so, The Spaniard had decided that what he needed for his next diversion was a classic bullfight. The practice had been outlawed on Earth for so long that no one could quite find the original law. But one of the perks of owning your own planet was being able to make your own rules. This was how Xavier had ended up with such an unusual cargo. The eccentricities and excesses of the rich.

It really should have been a simple delivery. The bull was sedated, locked in a stall, that stall then locked in the cargo hold. And yet, when one thing fails, doesn't it just seem that all the rest do too? The tranquilizers wearing off early, a power failure in the cargo bay causing the interior doors to open, some spaceport stevedore missing a latch on the animal transport. When it rains, as the saying goes, it pours. And so, as Xavier made his way from the head back to the cockpit, he heard a sound he'd never heard before, and yet wholly unmistakable. Heavy hooves on a steel catwalk. The huff of hot breath in recycled air. The sounds of a bull walking through a spaceship.

Xavier turned, slowly, looking down the length of the ship access corridor. His ship, the Peregrine, was built to take small loads at fast speeds. Narrow, long rather than wide for quick orbital insertion and in atmospheric flight. A single, long, straight corridor providing quick access to all the most essential systems and rooms. Cockpit, head, two small bunks. And, of course, the cargo area. In short, the perfect shape for a bull to charge down. Xavier saw, at the far end of the corridor, the bull. Still slightly unsteady on his feet, with big, black eyes like immense marbles regarding him with incomprehension turning swiftly to curiosity. He almost relaxed at that. The animal was still half under the effects of the drug. But before he could work himself up to trying to get the bull back into its pen, something happened. He had no idea what set the Bull off, what triggered the change, but the curiosity changed in an instant. A decision had been made. First, that the bull did not like the way the drugs made it feel. And second, that Xavier, the man in front of it, must be responsible for the way the bull felt. Not a wholly incorrect supposition, in the bulls defense. And with that, the bull began to charge down the hallway, all explosive speed, a wall of muscle flying down the length of the ship.

In that instant, Xavier turned and threw himself bodily down the corridor. You did not get to Xavier’s age without learning to think on your feet, reacting without taking precious moments to think it through first. As he ran, the plan came to him, as though he’d already known it when he started to move. If he could just reach the cockpit, he could slide the door shut behind him, lock it there. The bull wouldn’t get through solid titanium anytime soon, and when Xavier reached the pleasure planet, The Spaniard could have his bullfight on Xavier’s ship, for all Xavier cared. The blood would wash out, Xavier knew from experience. It didn’t matter if the blood was human or bull, it all flowed the same.

Dreams of future fights on his ship shattered as, all too quickly, he could feel the bull’s breath flattening the little damp hairs on the back of his neck. Once more, operating on purist instinct honed over a lifetime of unusual (and often illicit) jobs, Xavier pushed off one wall with his hand, his opposite shoulder striking the far wall with a dull thud as he leapt, body flying down the hallway in the classic super hero pose. It hadn’t been enough. Even as he’d done it, he had known it wasn’t enough. The bull, too close, the cockpit threshold, all too far. One of the bull’s horns caught him on the upper thigh, a blazing, searing pain traveling up his leg and his back and up into his head, exploding in fireworks there into a white nothingness.

Xavier was running, the white fading as he exited the tunnel on Iridia 5. It seemed, sometimes, that he’d been running his whole life from one thing or another. Footsteps clattered on the smooth concrete behind him, goons of some mob boss or another that he’d pissed off. A late delivery, or damaged goods, it didn’t matter to him, it never did. He did the job, he got paid, he left. Sometimes he left behind angry feelings, and he’d mark a planet off, never to return. He guessed he’d missed a mark on this planet. All he had to do was round the corner and he’d be in the spaceport, ready to take his next cargo to a planet without a little red “x” beside its name. He heard the gunshot just as he was about to round the corner, felt the bullet strike him in the upper thigh, a blazing, searing pain travelling up his leg and his back and up into his head, exploding in fireworks there…

He was back on the Peregrine, the flash of memory taking the barest instant, finishing before he’d even struck the floor. Some distant part of his mind was still stuck in that moment, remembering being dragged before some man who’d watched The Godfather one too many times, told he’d repay the debt he owed. That was what had got him into this whole mess, that distant part of him considered. He’d taken this job as one of many to pay off some debt that had only existed in the mind of some egomaniacal mafioso. But that distant part of his mind wasn’t responsible for his survival, so, as he struck the rough steel of the catwalk, he rolled, already anticipating the bull’s next strike. This time, he made it. He rolled just enough that the next horn missed him, the bull’s snout bouncing off his shoulder as it horn gouged into the wall next to his head, the thin metal wall screaming as the momentum of the bull rent a hole, catching some lighting wiring and plunging the whole corridor into red emergency lighting.

As the bull strained, yanking its head to the side, trying to free its horn, Xavier pulled himself up, began a stumbling run down the final crucial feet of the corridor. His leg flared with pain with each excruciating step, the blood coating his boots as they alternately slipped and then caught on the rough diamond pattern of the catwalk treads. Just as he crossed the bulkhead to the cockpit, the bull pulled free in one last, desperate show of unbelievable strength. Xavier slapped the door close button as he watched the bull charge down the corridor, gaining speed with each step. That survival instinct of his had no more actions to take, nowhere to run. So it slowed everything down, these last moments stretching out into a second lifetime. No other memories flashed before his eyes. Instead, he simply watched the bull as it drew closer. He studied the lines of it, the gracefully curving muscles, the flaring nostrils, the glossy hair. In that moment, it struck him as sad that such a beautiful creature existed only to die, the plaything of the rich, with a debt that only existed in the mind of some egomaniac. The door finally slid close, denting slightly as the bull crashed into it. Xavier collapsed into the pilot seat, the adrenaline giving way to shaking and shuddering exhaustion.

He set the Peregrine down on some grassy world only part way through its terraforming cycle. That was ideal, really. The bull would have all the grass it could ever desire, a million acre pasture. And there were no predators yet, not that Xavier thought most would be able to much bother the bull. The cargo hatch opened, and the bull roused instantly, drawn by the sweet scent of dirt and greenery. A stark contrast to the scents of oil and metal and ozone ever present on a spaceship. The bull trotted back down the corridor and out into the field, the grass bobbing and dancing in the wind, gently rustling against the breast of the bull, like the wake of a wave breaking against a small boat in an endless sea of jade. Xavier watched for a moment, a melancholic smile on his lips. Then he put a small red “x” next to a planet, closed the hatch, and initiated lift-off.