The Space Spoon

46. Little Shayla

Dressed in one of her favorite dresses, Shayla danced on a checkered floor. Men and women crowded the stage as she glided upon it. Even though the top of her head barely reached their waists, little Shayla touched the targeted areas for quick, painless kills. Holding the folds of her garment with one hand, she slashed and dashed between the dancers with a dagger in the other. Only when she was the last one standing did she stop.

Looking upon the carnage she had painted, little Shayla smiled.

"Great performance, sweety." Her father drew closer, applauding. "Your show has been perfect lately."

Her smile widened at her father’s praise. Nothing made her happier than these rare moments when she had all his attention on her. She blushed, her cheeks now as red as her garment woven with golden threads and shiny ruffles.

"In the last month, I've gotten perfect scores on every simulation." She beamed at her father. "Would it be possible to reset the computer to remove all of this gore from my dress?"

About two years ago, when Shayla was six, she had started her training. Back then, she was squeamish about seeing so much blood. But she was immune to all that now. She just wanted her gown back to normal.

Her father gave the voice command. "Computer, end simulation."

The black and white checkered floor faded into a faint grey, and the victims vanished one by one.

Shayla looked again at her hands and dress. They were less smudged now, but still not quite clean. As she gazed upon the floor, she saw that a body was still there. She gasped. "What is this?" She looked in dismay at the body on the floor. "Computer, report errors."

"No errors. Simulation stopped successfully."

"Shayla, congratulations!” Her father pointed toward the corpse. “You've just assassinated one of our adversaries. You have now completed the second phase of your training." He put his hand on her shoulder. "You must keep in mind that you must act. Only by action can a man become a hero. Death shouldn't terrify you. Only through death can a man become a legend. When the dust settles upon the legend, it becomes a myth. Do you want to be the stuff of myths and legends?"

"I'm not a man," Shayla stated, with sadness in her dark green eyes. She combed her hair with her fingers. Blood covered some of her ebony strands. The shock shook her core when she realized it was real and not just a simulation. She gazed upon her crimson hands. She could wash away the blood. Could the stain on her soul ever be cleaned? Tears streamed down her cheeks.

"I wish I had a boy, but you're the only child I have. So quit crying and grow a pair!" her father yelled and punched her in the face.

As her ass slapped onto the hard floor, the muscles in her back bunched. Her spine hurt almost as much as her cheekbone. She knew he didn’t hit her hard enough to leave any bruises. ‘All a woman has is her looks,’ her father always said.

Rubbing her cheek, she wanted to scream back at him. But she wasn't an idiot. Idle threats were useless. Serious threats never come with warnings.

"There is no place for kindness," her father said. "You must be able to devise more cruelty than any beast or monster. You shouldn't need anybody but yourself. You must watch, feel the horror, and release it into annihilating the brightness in the other's eyes. And all so abruptly that the victims of your destruction do not have time to assimilate their fear." He chuckled with a low grunt. "Do you want to be a better person? You can care about the other person's suffering. Kill them quickly so they won't feel pain and misery. Honor the dead with your elegant savagery."

The thud of his footsteps dissipated in the distance.

Shayla sank in the middle of the room, her knees hugged to her breast, her silk gown soaked in blood. To stop the weeping, she covered her lips and nose with both hands and didn't inhale until her lungs burned.

She peeked at her dagger. It was composed of Beridian, the most powerful mineral on her homeworld, named after the planet itself. Her blade could cut flesh and bone, cleave steel, and sunder stone. But she wasn’t strong enough to take her father’s life. He was more powerful than her. Nevertheless, she wouldn't be able to live with herself if she were to kill him. The only thing left for her was to take her own life.

A warm hand steadied her arm when the cold dagger touched her skin as Shayla prepared to kill herself. A beautiful golden necklace encircled her mother’s neck. On her head sat an obsidian crown as black as her hair. Her sigh was like an air vent; quiet, yet it penetrated Shayla’s eardrums in a way that made her brain feel at peace, like an ocean in an endless night.

They made their way from the training room to the Queen's chambers. They could talk freely behind closed doors, though Shayla was at a loss for words. To her relief, her mother spoke first.

"I want to tell you a story." The Queen tapped on the bed with her hand, inviting her to sit.

"I'm no longer a little girl," Shayla grumbled.

"Okay, then you can stand on your own two feet. There was once a lady who flourished in a male-dominated society. She battled her way up the ranks of a rebel ship. Everyone looked up to her and respected her. Even when the ship's captaincy passed to a mad Nubilae named Tejeda Hajar, she remained the ship's second in command."

"I think I know the story," Shayla said, interrupting her mother. "And that name... Tejeda Hajar... It's something I've heard before."

"Of course, you have," her mother said. "You're Shayla Bale, the Space Spoon's second in command, and you are trapped in a memory."

She raised her hands at her eye level. The faces of the victims she had slain slithered up Shayla's fingers, fitting around her hands like a velvet glove as she recalled their features. She could see their final moments if she concentrated hard enough.

"I'm E00," her mother added. "Please return. We require your assistance."

Shayla had to accept that this was merely a memory. The time when she could choose death instead of becoming a killer was long gone. She couldn't get away from her history. She was the sharp blade that engraved it into her very essence.