Retirement

The grizzled old space marine shuffled to his chair and slumped into it. His muscles were somewhat atrophied from long periods of zero-grav. Memories, love lost, lasers; he'd led a full life. But he was somehow disappointed, as he surveyed his many medals and commendations that lined his walls. There was one missing, one that he had always planned on obtaining, but had never quite found the right opportunity. The Silver Nova, the medal given to those who had given their lives in battle. Those who gave it and those who expected to receive it always considered it a fair exchange. In many ways it was the ultimate achievement.

But he had fought so long and had never won it. He had lost battles, he had nearly lost his life a dozen times over, he had been captured, escaped, and regained his command. Somehow he always came out in one piece.

Restless, despite his white hairs, he rose from his seat and strode to the open window, the curtains billowed in the night breeze. He looked towards the stars, naming them in his mind, remembering the scars he had won among them. He looked at his old, bony hands that had wrought such destruction in their day. In one system the natives gave him a name that roughly translated to The Steady Hand Of Justice. They would call him something different now.

He had risen through the ranks like a devouring fire, accepting each offer of advancement with the single caveat that he must be kept in the field, on active duty. He'd often wondered why no one tried to assassinate him, he suspected his reputation in combat had something to do with it. Though there had been so many deaths among the higher staff lately... Someone would stop the killer soon, no doubt.

He slapped the handgun that he still kept always on his hip.

As he turned away from the window, there was a flicker of movement. The old marine saw it in one of the mirrors affixed the walls.

And then the assassin stepped onto the small balcony, and was silhouetted in the moonlight. The figure was reflected subtly in every medal and every plaque upon the walls.

The veterans eyes narrowed. To give his life, here was one more chance. But he must give it in combat, there was no honor in the death of cattle in the slaughterhouse.

With a movement like a fine clock his old right hand flew to his gun, he drew as he turned to face his assailant.

They were both found the next day. The marine shot in the solar plexus, and the assassin who would never kill again, drilled right between the eyes.