by Wen Spencer
"Sir, I've triple checked. There's Reds missing."
"Missing? How many?"
"Over half of them."
"Half!" Mikhail headed for red pit, aware that once again Inozemtsev trailed behind him. Fucking idiot had been dead on. How did you lose that many Reds? "How long have they been gone?"
"I'm not sure, sir. I haven't checked on them since after we removed the Red you killed."
"Did you do a headcount then?"
"Yes, twenty-nine Reds. Twenty in Beta and nine in Alpha."
"All the ones in Alpha are gone?"
"Yes. All the replacements. And ten of our veterans are missing from Beta Red."
The replacements he could see fleeing for some reasons, but the two groups weren't getting along, and the top cat was dead.
"Where did the remaining veterans say the missing Reds have gone?"
"I didn't think to ask them."
Fucking bigoted idiot!
They reached the bottom deck and he keyed open the Alpha Red. It still smelled of blood. There were no Reds inside. He had locked the door after they took Butcher's body out—hadn't he? He turned and opened the other pit.
Beta pit was nearly empty with the remaining Reds huddled together, looking scared.
"Where did they go?" Mikhail asked.
They shook their heads.
"Just one moment they were here," Smoke said. "And then they'd be gone."
"Something took them," Coffee said. "But we didn't see what it was."
"We couldn't see it," Rabbit clarified. "It was that thing we couldn't see on the hull."
Seraphim took his Reds? Eraphie had said that angels 'rescued' people. Had they seen the Reds as in danger and needing rescued? She'd implied that people were only shifted short distances by the Seraphim when they were 'saved.'
"Gear up, we're going to see if we can find them."
* * *
They couldn't find the Reds anywhere on the island. It had started to rain in sheets of gray. Waves were growing taller, crashing over the breakwater. Mikhail stared out over the seething ocean, feeling sick. None of his Reds could swim.
"Let's go back to the ship," Mikhail said.
"Captain?" Rabbit whispered. "Do we really have to go back to the pit? It might come back."
Mikhail patted the yearling on the shoulder. "We're leaving here. There's nothing here on this island for us."
15
Promises to Keep
Turk woke with Captain Bailey rubbing her toes against his stomach.
He and Captain Bailey had pulled duty on the Rosetta while the rest of the crew had shore leave. They'd spent the day gutting the crew cabins which had been damaged by a drop nut. Afterwards, they created a temporary common sleeping area on the top deck, complete with privacy barriers. Too tired to cook, they'd splurged on dinner off a passing boat; a mobile restaurant, billowing out fragment smoke and calling out its wares in singsong Japanese. Roast duck. Corn on the cob. Hot fruit pastries. And something that had a kick like vodka that she called Burn. Tired and full, they'd sprawled out in the new sleeping area to rest.
He opened his eyes and gazed up her bare legs. She lay on her back studying a reader. Almost as if she didn't realize what she was doing, she flexed her foot and caressed her toes across his abdomen.
He leaned up and rasped his tongue across her instep.
"Hey," she laughed.
Smiling, he followed her foot as she tried to move away from his mouth. He ran his tongue up the back of her calf to the hollow behind her knee. She tasted clean, warm and oh so female.
"Hey!" Her laugh deepened to a throaty groan. She reached down without looking and caught him by his collar. "Stop that."
She gave his head a slight tug to pull him away from her knee. He crawled up her, the smooth skin of her inner thighs caressing his sides as he did. Her shirt rode up, showing off the sensual dip of her belly button at the center of her flat stomach and the swell of her breasts. He wanted to lick the beads of sweat from her skin.
She had tilted her reader, though, to eye him. "What are you doing?" she asked as if it wasn't obvious.
So he continued upwards until she was totally under him. In this position, she felt smaller than before. Was this really the same woman that had dragged him out of the civ hive? Even the kinkiest of cat fanciers would be afraid of being under him, helpless, but she continued to gaze up at him as if she trusted him completely.
He found that he didn't want to betray that trust. "I think I'm trying to seduce you."
"Just think? You don't know if that's what you're doing?"
His groin kissed into her softness, and her eyes dilated with anticipation.
"I know what I am trying to do, but I don't know if I'm succeeding. Seduction usually requires a positive response to work."
She lowered her book completely to study him. "Usually."
Her eyes may have been wantonly soft, but her voice was carefully neutral. Not what one would call 'positive.'
"Believe it or not, I'm not totally sure of what I'm doing. I usually have to beat women off with a stick."
She laughed. "Oh, I believe it." She let go of his collar and slid her hand up to rest on his cheek. "You probably just need to look at a woman and she melts."
"Are you mocking me?"
"No. I'm making an observation." She turned her attention back to her reader. "You have beautiful eyes."
He wasn't sure what to do next. She hadn't pushed him off her, or told him to stop, but she was paying more attention to her reader than to him. "What are you reading?"
"I had Manny buy some children's books."
So he was less interesting to her than children's books? He shifted off her body. Why had he started this? As he wondered, Paige stretched out her foot and wriggled her toes against his thigh. Oh yes, he acted in response to her touch.
She didn't move her foot, and the tips of her toes remained a hair's-breadth from his leg. It made him aware that a moment before, they had been causally intimate, like old lovers. The loss of that closeness ached inside, and slowly turned to anger. Was she just playing with him?
"Why are you reading those books?" he growled lowly.
"They're in Russian. I thought if you ended up stuck with us, you should have someone that could speak your language."
The low burn of anger vanished. Some strange emotion he couldn't identity but suspected was love flooded through him. He leaned forward and kissed her. She made a small, startled noise that ended with low moan. The sound of it made him move over her, bringing their bodies back together.
Several minutes later, she tried to push him away, murmuring, "I shouldn't be doing this."
He resisted, nuzzling into her neck, delighting that her breath shook when he touched her. "You want it."
"Yes, I want it." She gasped as he slid down to lick the sweat from her stomach. "But you haven't said you're staying."
He kissed down her body, pulling loose the drawstring on her pants and nudging the band down so he could bury his nose into the three inches of white fabric that had tempted him so on that first day. The heady smell of her excitement flooded his senses. He wanted her under him, in proper missionary-style, watching her face as he pushed himself into her, but he restrained himself. It would come to that. It would be better to savor the experience.
"I can't do a one night stand." She whispered, but lifted her hips so he could slide off her pants. He nuzzled her soft mound, and then, hooking the fabric of her underwear with his thumb, he slid them aside.
"Turk," she murmured his name but he couldn't tell if it was in faint protest or desire.
"I'm staying," he promised.
When he put his mouth on her sex, her breath caught and came out a soft moan. "Oh, yes," she hissed. "That's so good." And after that, she only whimpered softly in delight.
When Paige released, it wasn't with the cat fancier's rake of his shoulders, inflicting pain even as they took pleasure. Her hands stayed gentle on the b
ack of his head, pressing him into her. He couldn't restrain himself any more. He surged up her body. Paige reached for him, drawing him eagerly into her and then locked her arms and legs around him. He was too close to make it last as long as he wanted. He was keenly aware of her slight body under him. He gazed into her eyes, watching the echoes of her pleasure play across her face.
Afterwards, he laid nestled into her, still conjoined to her. Her eyes dreamy with drink and sex, her breath deepening toward sleep. When her eyes finally closed, he felt sorrow seeping in. He didn't want to lose this closeness, this first taste of mutual pleasure. He was afraid that when she woke up, she'd remember he wasn't a man. Or worse, she was simply a tamer variety of cat fancier.
16
Parting is such sweet sorrow
Fog shrouded Yamoto-Yamaguchi in thick gray, reminding Mikhail of early dawn, as the harbor tugboats maneuvered them through the waterways of the sprawling settlement. Visibility was only a few hundred feet. The two great spaceships were suggestions of mountains within the clouds, all detail lost to the mist. The sea had been rough out beyond the massive seawall behind them, and they'd hovered, waiting to be guided into the harbor. Here, though, the water lay nearly still with a faint sheen, looking like mercury between the high dock walls. Boats of every shape and size moved around them, ignoring their passage to the point that they nearly collided. The largest number were barge-like crafts, riding so low they seemed as if they were about to sink at any moment. As if to support this impression, a constant stream of bilge water poured out of a pipe on their sides. The rest though were as small and rough as a rowed gondola to needle-like powerboats to large freighters. Massive cranes made from steel girders lined the shores, like great insects, loading and unloading the ships.
Gray and grungy as the harbor and boats appeared, Mikhail found it all comforting after the desolate ruin of Fenrir's Rock and the endless sea. This was life. These people were thriving in this place. The Svoboda wasn't alone in this strange place.
The tugboat slowed, churning up water to check the Svoboda's forward momentum. Keeping its nose to the Svoboda's side, the tugboat swung around and slowly nudged the spaceship up against the dock. The tugboat's crew had set up lines to tie the Svoboda off at pilings and now moved as a team to secure the Svoboda into place.
Kutuzov was ashore first and was met by a wizened old man the size of a child.
"Konichiwa!" The man called and bowed to Kutuzov.
"We don't speak Japanese," Kutuzov was saying in Standard as Mikhail joined them on the dock. "Does anyone speak Standard?"
The old man displayed his thumb and forefinger close together and then squinted through it. "Rittle Standard." He had to say it twice before they understood that he was saying, "Little Standard."
"We stay here." Kutuzov pointed at the dock space. That was greeted with a blank look. "Here. Ship. Here."
The old man rubbed his together. "A hundred yen."
Kutuzov waved off the price. "Fifty yen."
"Iie! Iie!" The old man yelped. Mikhail thought he was upset until he added, "Ninety yen!"
The two haggled for a few minutes; hampered by the fact that old man only knew a handful of words. While Mikhail wondered where Kutuzov planned to get the yen, he was nevertheless impressed that his second-in-command was doing as well as he was. Once they agreed on price, Kutuzov produced a toy hoverjet with remote. A toy meant for his son. Kutuzov showed off how the hoverjet worked to the old man's great interest. With a little difficulty, Kutuzov managed to convey that he wanted to sell it, not trade it directly for docking fee. The reason became quickly clear, as he set an initial price at two hundred yen. They haggled over the price of it, finally settling on a hundred and sixty yen for the toy, seventy-five of which would go towards the docking fee. The old man hobbled away with his hard won toy.
"Good job," Mikhail said after the negotiation was done, relieved he didn't have to do it himself. Since shooting Butcher and his Reds being taken, he'd felt fragile, as if the next blow would break him. "You didn't have to use a personal item though."
Kutuzov shrugged, jingling his hard earned coins in his hand. "I'll buy another when we get home. Now what, Captain?"
His crew's trust in him was intimidating. "We find someone that can speak Standard and Japanese fluently. Can you see if the old man can point us in a direction where we might find someone?"
"Yes, Captain." Kutuzov laughed and jogged after the old man, saying, "Onward—into battle!'
Mikhail smiled and turned his focus back on the city around him. Eraphie had implied that this was the hub of manufacturing and ship repair. They should be able to get the Svoboda repaired here, although it might mean gutting the Tigertail for parts. That step would only make sense, though, if the people that adapted Fenrir's engine survived the implosion. Otherwise their resources would be best spent finding a place in this world.
The mist shifted and he realized that something was moving toward him. He only had a moment to recognize the seraphim before it wrapped around him . . ..
. . .Mikhail could hear Nyanya Ingrid's soft breathing from her bed as he crept to his old crib. Since his baby brother arrived the week before, Nanny had been napping in the afternoon. She would be asleep for a long, long time. Now was his chance to play with his new brother. His father had told him that baby Viktor was his little brother, made so Mikhail wouldn't have to grow up alone, like his father had. And baby Viktor was a clone, just like him, so they'd grow up exactly the same, which meant baby Viktor wouldn't get bored playing chess like Nyanya Ingrid did. Yet no matter how many times he asked, Nyanya Ingrid wouldn't let him even hold his baby brother. He had long ago figured out how to turn off all the safety alarms on his old crib and escape out. This time he would just escape in. He tapped in Nyanya Ingrid's code to turn off the alarm, pushed his chessboard and chess pieces through the bars, along with a bag of juju beans . . .
Mikhail recoiled in horror. No. Not this memory. But he couldn't drag himself free.
. . .Mikhail wasn't sure why his father thought Viktor would be fun for him. Viktor seemed to do nothing more than squirm on his back, waving his hands and feet. It was interesting how tiny his fingers and toes were, but he ignored all the chess pieces that Mikhail tried giving him. Perhaps he'd like yum-yum beans. Mikhail carefully shared the candy out. One for him. One for baby Viktor. He couldn't get Viktor to pick the candy up, so he put the candy into Viktor's toothless mouth. Viktor made gurgling noises and waved his tiny hands and kicked his little feet. Mikhail took a second for himself and put another into Viktor's mouth. Mikhail was chewing on his third piece of candy when he realized something was wrong. Viktor had gone dark blue in his face and his hands and feet were no longer moving. Mikhail stared in horror at the limp baby. He'd broken his little brother somehow . . .
No. No. No.
It'd been his own crying that woke Nyanya. She came running in and jerked Mikhail out of the crib.
"What did you do, you evil little monster?" She dumped him onto the floor, snatched up Viktor, and started to scream. It was a primal wail of terror and distress. Terrified out of her screams, he fled her. Under his bed was safety, his big boy bed shielding him from justice.
He was a monster. They always kill monsters.
"What did you do?" Nyanya wailed again. "You've killed him, you monster!"
The door flung open and his father's voice demanded, "What's wrong?"
"Misha killed the baby!" And she held out the proof: his brother's limp body.
"Oh, no, no." His father cried in a tone so hurt and broken that it tore Mikhail's heart. His father took his brother from Nyanya, his body bowing as if receiving a massive weight instead of the slight body. "Oh please, god, no . . ."
"Stop it!" Mikhail shouted. "Stop!"
"Captain?" Rabbit's voice finally broke the hold that the alien creature had on Mikhail's mind. But the damage was done. He felt like a hole had been torn through him. He grieved now as if his infant brother was freshl
y dead. That he'd been three years old at the time was no solace. He understood all the ramifications so much more clearly now. Viktor's existence had been erased to protect Mikhail. The official statement about Viktor's birth had been delayed to coincide with the Empire's anniversary, so no notice of death needed to be made. No funeral was held. No official gravesite. Even now Mikhail did not know what they did with the tiny body. Gone as if he never lived, and Mikhail was responsible. He'd utterly destroyed his baby brother.
Irony was that Viktor's death triggered Turk's adoption—the one good thing in all of his life. Ivan had stood firm on the idea that Mikhail should have a brother but would not approve the creation of another Volkov clone. Bad enough to murder Viktor and let his death go unpunished. Unacknowledged. It would have been far, far worse to pretend that another person could utterly replace him. But a Red? A Red would have been easy to dispose of. A Red could have been replaced. Only Mikhail had been oh so careful with his little brother from then on.
Careful until he brought him to this world of death on a mission he'd known was suicide.
"Captain, is something wrong?" Rabbit asked.
Mikhail shook his head and fought to seem solid, unshakable. "Everything is fine." But it wasn't. Mikhail had stranded his crew in this watery graveyard of spaceships. Turk was dead. He'd utterly destroyed both his little brothers. And some alien creature was forcing him to remember it in exacting detail. What was next? Eraphie's rape? Butcher's death? Eraphie had said that the aliens were angels. Was this some divine justice to punish him for all his misdeeds?
He couldn't take that. His crew was safe here in Yamoto-Yamaguchi. Safe as he could ever make them. They didn't need him protecting them anymore. God knows, if the seraphim succeeded in driving him insane, his crew would probably be better off without him.
* * *
Turk had no warning of the attack. He'd spent hours working with Paige and Orin learning carpentry as they rebuilt the ruined crew quarters. He was tired, thirsty, sore, and looking forward to what the Rosetta's crew called a shower.
