www.thevalentinechronicles.com
presents:
After the Ordeal
by Paul L. Mathews
It was
two days since the Troika and its
crew had evaded the Long Knives and their allies. Now the battered vessel lay
in orbit of an insignificant planetoid whilst the crew
effected what repairs they could on the sturdy old ship.
Tatiana
Valentine welcomed the distraction. Crammed into a narrow, twisting service
duct, she and Boyd tried to repair the Troika’s
Muon relays, the young Oridian throwing herself into the task with gusto.
Finished, Tatiana sat
back and flipped up her welding mask, the Oridian blue of her flawless skin
flushed and hot. For a moment she watched Boyd as he worked. He too was
welding, but his broad shoulders allowed him to focus his work on those higher,
harder to reach spots on the relay, his strong arms more capable of holding the
equipment above shoulder height for longer periods. He was bandaged from the
flesh-wounds he’d sustained in the raid on the Long Knife flagship, and his
movements had a pained, mechanical aspect.
At least he came back, Tatiana found herself thinking. Doll Three hadn’t been so
lucky, blown to bits by the Long Knives.
Boyd
dropped the welding lance to one side and flexed his arm with a mumbled curse.
He’d been so quiet since the raid, so withdrawn. She could only guess what he
was going through. Matinee had been his friend. Matinee and Father…
She
turned away sharply. Father. Don’t
think about it.
Flipping
the welding mask back down, angry at herself, she moved on to the next task.
#
“Okay, Ivan, that’s
it,” Boyd said over the ship’s network. “The relays are sealed. You should be
able to get the Graviton drives back online now.”
Tatiana listened
carefully for Ivan’s answer. When it came, it was as she had expected, strained
and tight with pain—another legacy of their encounter with the Witch.
“Thank
you, Boyd. Once Vast has re-jigged sensor membrane, we shall go,” he continued
in his broken English. “I would like to reach Bazaar in forty eight hours,
maximum.”
The
signal dropped out, and Boyd’s head slumped forward as his eyes shut. Putting
his forearm against the bulkhead, he rested his head against it. He looked
worn-out.
“Are you okay?”
Tatiana moved to touch him, going so far as raising her hand—misshapen and
clumsy in its welding glove—but she stopped and lowered her hand. She felt
herself blush, and hoped Boyd hadn’t noticed.
“Aye, I’m
fine,” Boyd murmured, and Tatiana saw his eyes flick to her hand and back to
her face. “Just tired, that’s all.” His answer seemed hesitant, and, if
anything, she wondered if he looked a little… disappointed? She felt her pulse
quicken that little bit. Did he, she wondered with a shortness of breath, want
her to touch him?
“You
should get some rest,” Tatiana said. “You look ill.”
“Thanks.”
“No,
seriously, Boyd. You can’t keep doing this.”
“Doing
what?”
“Pushing
yourself so hard. You can’t repair the whole ship on your own, y’know.”
“Well,
it’s not as if Matinee’s here to help, is it?”
There was
no malice on the comment, no barb, but it stung Tatiana. She balked. “Was that
aimed at me?” she asked, hurt.
“What?”
He looked genuinely confused.
“That.
That comment. Was it aimed at me?”
“At you?
Why would it be aimed at you?”
“Because
you think I just left her to die, don’t you? You and Ivan and Vast. You think
when the Witch got hold of her I just left her and ran away, don’t you?”
“Oh, Christ,”
he said, stepping toward her. “No, Tatiana—that’s not what I meant at all.”
He
reached out to her, but she stepped away. She churned inside. Did he mean it?
Did he blame her? He looked genuine enough, but still… Unable to understand,
unable to cope, she turned away and ran, hoping that Boyd hadn’t seen the tears
in her eyes.
#
The
headset buzzed in Boyd’s ear, relaying Ivan’s cracked voice as the old man
said, “Sensors are repaired. I am on flight deck now and shall set course for
the Bazaar. Vast will take over from me in six hours.”
Putting
the finishing touches to a wiring loom, Boyd paused before saying, “Are you sure?
Six hours is a long shift, Ivan.” He grimaced before biting the bullet and
saying, “You’re not as young as you used to be, y’know. And you’re pretty
banged up.”
“I am
captain. I am sure. You will get rest.”
“Rest.
Aye. ”Boyd smiled ruefully as he thought of the other million and one things
that needed repairing.
#
Make that
one million.
Four
hours later, in the clutter and burnt metal of the Lukin bay and its
escape-pods, Boyd was ready to drop. Sitting on a tool-box, he slumped forward
with his forearms resting on his thighs and head hung low. Still, he thought, at least the pods are in working order now.
Rubbing
at the back of his aching neck, he wondered what to do next. Get some rest? No. To stop was to dwell. To
dwell was to think about Matinee and Gregor.
Maybe he should check on Tatiana. He’d upset her.
Even he could see that, even with his lack of experience with women. Maybe he
should drop by her cabin and apologise—
He
stopped himself, and snarled under his breath. Apologise? Who the hell did he
think he was? She doesn’t need his ‘apology’. She needed her Father. She needed
time. She needed—
Katarina?
He
stopped, trying to think, trying to conjure some mental dexterity through the
fatigue. Katarina. He couldn’t remember when he’d last seen her—or heard from
her. Wasn’t she supposed to be working on the shuttles?
#
Fifteen
minutes earlier, and Tatiana—curled up on her bunk in her tidy quarters—had
nearly cried herself to sleep before she awoke with a start.
Katarina!
Tatiana sat up. There was something
wrong with Katarina, she realised as that weird stabbing pain in her
stomach and wave of nausea assailed her, just as they always did when Katarina
was in trouble. But where was she?
Now, as
the door to Matinee’s quarters opened, Tatiana saw her sister, and knew she’d
been right to worry.
Matinee’s
old punk CDs lay strewn about the floor, stubbed out cigarettes and empty
bottles scattered amongst them. The air was thick with the frenetic anger of
music and languid cigarette smoke. A single lamp—sat at side of Matinee’s
bunk—illuminated the messy scene, and it picked out the sullen, slumped form of
Katarina as she sat on the floor at the back of the quarters.
“Katarina?”
Tatiana asked. “Are you okay?” There was no immediate response. Instead
Katarina just stared up at her sister, dull, sodden eyes boring through thick
lashes. She looked like shit, Tatiana
thought, looking at the heart she’d scored into her chest to ward off the Witch,
the wound leering out from above the low neckline of her bloody vest. She was
still wearing the same clothes she been wearing two days ago. Tatiana wasn’t
even sure she’d washed.
“Katarina?”
Tatiana asked again, taking another step toward her sister. “Katarina—are you
drunk?”
“Go
away,” Katarina finally muttered as she took a long drag from a fresh cigarette
before washing the smoke down with a swig from a whisky bottle. “Leave me
alone.”
“What are
you doing?” Tatiana asked, and her voice softened, a heavy seam of concern
running through it. “Katarina… If Ivan knew you were smoking…”
“He’d
what?” Katarina asked with a false smile. “Yell at me? Do you think I care? Do
you think I could feel any worse?”
Despite
her bravado, Tatiana could see Katarina was hurting badly, her face streaked
with mascara tears. “Katarina, I—”
“How could
I feel worse, Tatiana? How? We left our parents behind. To die. We left Matinee
behind. To die. How could I feel any worse?” Her voice cracked, and, even in
this semi-darkness, Tatiana saw the flash of tears. Katarina looked away, and
wiped her eyes on her bare forearm.
“Katarina.”
Tatiana began to flounder a little. She just wanted to comfort her sister, but
Katarina’s anger and grief were so fierce Tatiana thought they may burn her.
She scrabbled about to try and find something to say, some way to soothe
Katarina’s pain. “We didn’t leave—”
“Perhaps
that’s what Ivan’ll do to me, uh?” Katarina said, words spilling half-formed
and slurred. “Leave me behind? Perhaps he’ll leave me behind for the Witch to
catch, d’ya think?”
“Katarina, please!”
Tatiana said, imploring hands spread wide as tears stung her eyes. She felt her
throat contract and her chin go that funny square shape it always did when she
tried not to cry. “Please—don’t do this! It’s bad enough to see you so upset,
Kat—but to hear you talk like this—”
“Still, if you’d
had the guts to kill the Witch when you had the chance,” Katarina continued, as
if she’d gained so much momentum she was unable to stop, her emotion rushing
out of her in a stream of vitriol and grief., “I wouldn’t need to worry, would
I?”
At that
moment, with that single, cutting remark, Tatiana’s concern and care vanished.
Taking another step toward her drunken sister, she grabbed her dirty t-shirt
and dragged her to her feet until they were eye to eye. Suddenly the concern
had turned to anger.
“And I
suppose that’s what you wanted? I suppose you wanted me to kill the Witch, is
that it?” Tatiana said with a hiss. Now it was her turn for her emotions—and
her mouth—to run away with her. “Well, I don’t think you did, Kat, because I heard
you. I heard you with your ‘Oh, please don’t kill me, Miss Witch. I’ll be ever
so good. I’ll be your little apprentice. I’ll be your lil’ bitch—’”
“To
hell with you!”
Katarina shouted. “I was bluffing. I’d have said anything to save my life!”
“So you say.
But I know you, Katarina, with your little gothy friends and your stupid séance
parties. You’d give your life to be like the Witch, wouldn’t you? Maybe even
our lives—”
Katarina
slapped Tatiana across the face, stunning her into silence.
“I dare
you to say that again,” Katarina whispered, glaring into her sister’s eyes. “I
dare y—”.
“Enough!”
They
turned to see Boyd in the doorway. He looked exhausted and angry. “That’s
enough. Both of you. Don’t you think we’re in enough trouble without fighting
amongst ourselves? Don’t you think you two should be pulling together instead
of punching each other?”
The girls
fell silent, and Tatiana felt her anger evaporate only to be replaced by
embarrassment. She stepped away from Katarina and stood with her head bowed,
hands clasped behind her back. Suddenly she felt very small. Suddenly she
remembered what it was like to be told off by Father. “I’m sorry, Boyd,” she
muttered. She didn’t hear anything from Katarina.
“Look,
we’re all tired. We’re all hurt,” Boyd said, sounding so weary and so drained
Tatiana wondered he could stand. “I think you two just need to get some rest,
some space—and you, Kat, need to sober up—”
“That’s ‘Your
Highness’ to you, Boyd,” Katarina said, sneering. “An’ don’t you ever presume
to tell me what to do, okay? You’re not my Father. You’re just staff.”
Tatiana
looked up again, as her anger re-ignited, but Katarina had already stormed past
Boyd and out of Matinee’s quarters, thrusting the half-empty bottle of liquor
into the startled Boyd’s hands.
Boyd
didn’t react. He just stood there, staring at the bottle.
“Maybe I
should go, too,” Tatiana mumbled, hands still behind her back.
“What?
Oh. Yeah,” Boyd said. He had a distance in his eyes Tatiana had never seen
before. She put it down to fatigue.
“Okay.
I’ll go then,” she said.
Not that
she didn’t want to stay. Nothing could have been further from the truth. She
wanted to stay and say sorry for the things she’d said—that Katarina had
said—but she couldn’t find the words or—Katarina’s words still ringing in her
ears—the guts.
Seconds
later, in a troubled silence, Tatiana slipped past Boyd and ran away.
#
An hour
later and Boyd was still staring at that bottle.
By now
he’d moved to sit on Matinee’s bunk, but he was enraptured by the whisky. It’d be so easy, wouldn’t it? he
thought. Just a few swigs and he could
slide into oblivion. No worries, no angst. No guilt. Even if it were just for a
short while, it’d be worth it, right?
Nobody’d get hurt, he thought as he started to
unscrew the cap. A few missing hours and then back to repairing the ship.
Nobody’d be any the wiser, right?
“Put that
down, Boyd.”
Wrong.
“Ivan!”
Boyd straightened. “I… Um… I thought you were flying the ship…” Boyd’s voice
trailed off, and it was his turn to feel like a kid caught with his hands in
the sweetie jar.
Ivan
didn’t respond straight away. Standing in the doorway, Ivan’s big, heavy frame
filled the aperture. Well over six feet tall, his frame was robust and
muscular, and only the pure white of his lustrous hair and sans chin
beard hinted at his advancing years. As he stood there, glaring at Boyd, the
Scotsman could believe every one of the stories he’d heard about Ivan and his
past, and the barely contained fury behind those eyes illustrated why they’d
called the Russian ‘Ivan the Terrible’.
He
watched Boyd for a moment or two before continuing. “Do you think that is going
to help? Do you think getting drunk is going to help keep Twins alive? Or ship
in one piece? Or bring Gregor and Matinee back?”
“Ivan,
I—”
“This is
rhetorical question, yes? I will talk, and you will listen, yes?”
Boyd
nodded like a frightened, chastised child.
“I am not
here to tell you what to do. You are grown up. I am leaving now to get rest. I
will leave you, and you will do what you think is best. You will either get
rest also, or get drunk. Choice is yours.
“But,
Boyd, remember. We are long way from home now. If there is any hope of our
returning, I need you. I need you focused, and I need you sober, yes? Now
Matinee is gone, I need you more than ever.
“Now, you
can either do your job, or return to being drunken illiterate you were when
Gregor took you under his wing, yes? You decide.”
With this
typically brisk diatribes concluded, Ivan left.
Boyd
stared at the bottle.
Four
hours later, he was roaring drunk.
The Valentine Chronicles will continue with Russians
Discuss this story—and
more—on the Valentine
Chronicles forum
©
2007 Mathew David Spaull. All rights reserved.