Mince Meat

(CW mentions of suicide, murder, war, loss of loved ones)

It was a dark and stormy night. Captain Phoebus paced in his cabin. He wondered how long it would take for a small hole in the hull, say caused by the blade in his hand, to fill the lower cabins and sink the ship. Not that he wanted to die, nor was he worried by the hard waves. That was preposterous. He’d seen far worse than tonight’s storm, and he knew that his ship was well built. Old Hal had never let him down, and likely never would. He cared for his ship just as his mother had cared for him; a fussy sort of love, always checking that everything was ticking away just right, but never forgetting a bit of tough testing to make sure he’d be fine on his own. Hal had taken him through hurricanes and sharp rock banks. Phoebus would even be happy fishing for the Kraken, along as it was with Hal. Phoebus trusted his boat.

He didn’t trust his cargo

It had been an ordinary job on the face of it: a handle-with-care package to be smuggled onto the German coast. He’d done hundreds like this, and was always the most trusted with getting around the German’s patrol ships. That was the thing about War: people were used to doing it in a certain way. As long as you thought different, it was easy to get around the infants in their uniforms playing with the lives of thousands as if it were some board game. 

But this job was different. He couldn’t help but notice when his contractors had referred to his cargo as Mathew. Now, funny names were uncommon in this sort of job, but human ones were rare. Then there was the unsettling coincidence from his day job. It had only been a week ago a man named Mathew had come into his fish shop asking for a full wedding banquet. “So I can surprise my Jenny when I get back”. He had said the name Jenny with a touch of sadness, as if unsure that he would return. Phoebus didn’t like the thought, but it came anyway: what if it was the same Mathew he was transporting now?

And the last point - the real stickler that had the captain contemplating whether he’d better just disappear into oblivion. He wished the storm had been heavier, then it might have interfered with the message, scrambled something, allowing him room for doubt. But it had come through, as clear as the days he used to spend out in the fields, picking flowers with his mother, before the War had taken her too. The telegram had come through, short and to the point. “Change plan. Off-load cargo into the sea.”

Thunder clapped outside, echoing somehow off of the vast expanse of water which surrounded Phoebus and his trusty Hal. The echoes reminded him how alone he was out here, how small and insignificant. If it was a body he was carrying, then he had no right to decide its fate. If, God forbid, the man was still alive in that metal coffin, then Phoebus could not just dump the man into the mercy of the ocean without a second thought. If it were a corpse, then it deserved a proper burial. God had had a plan for this man, and once again those children with their medals of hard putty were deciding to interfere with His plans. The least the poor soul deserved were the rites to allow him to move on and rest peacefully. He had vowed to never stoop as low as the murderous newborns when they had condemned his mother to that same fate. Maybe the Earth had died and was now in Hell, but Phoebus still held fast to his morals. He could not condemn a man to simply be washed out of existence, eternally tossed around in purgatorial suspension. His heart wouldn’t take the shame. Not without going as well. And, he smiled, he could finally see his dear mother again. She would like the company, although she wouldn’t have approved of his little side job going along with the War. But that was the thing with War: people were used to doing it in a certain way, and eventually those who thought different weren’t allowed to play. Calmly, he picked up the transceiver and sent the same message he sent for the end of any contract: “Terminated. It has been an honour”.