Triumph Over Tragedy: an anthology for the victims of Hurricane Sandy

by R. T. Kaelin

  “I don't want to tell you. It hurts.”

  “It's good for you!” he cried, and kissed the pitted, pearly skin.

  She burst into sobs then, and cowered in his arms, clutching the sheets to her throat. He wondered what secret would be so terrible that even the physical reminder of it was some sort of secret to her.

  Memory

  Ed had found out her biggest secret. Her hurt, and anger and fear made the pearl grow. So he hurt her, and found a little comfort for himself in hurting her. He knew his life was crashing around him, the cards slowly sliding towards inevitable collapse. He drank, and he gambled, and sometimes the only money was from illegal things, but it was a life.

  She huddled on the bed, curled into a fetal position, and stroked her pearl endlessly, until the collapse came.

  Secret

  “It's ok!” he said. She had been crying in her sleep for almost an hour, curled into a fetal position. He was scared to touch her. But then, she rocketed up, screaming and flailing at an invisible aggressor, and he caught her in his arms.

  “Don't touch me!” she cried, and beat at him. Trying to protect himself, he grasped her arms and shook her gently.

  Her moan was like a wounded, tortured animal. She subsided in his arms, limp and unresisting. He felt her skin fracturing beneath his fingers.

  Memory

  Someone started pounding on the front door. She could hear it from her bed, but nothing really mattered. She stank, because Ed was afraid soap would damage the pearl, and because she didn't care anymore. Ed threw open the bedroom door and grabbed her arm, yanking her off the bed. He hadn't fared much better than she had. Too much alcohol, too many late nights gambling, the inner demons that spoke through his dreams. He had never shared those dreams with her.

  “I'm out of here,” he said, “and I'm taking you with me.”

  She started to protest, her voice a weak croak, before she realized. He wasn't talking to her. He was talking to her pearl, the big, luminous thing dominating her chest. It didn't hurt any more, just sat there, one more weight among the many hurts.

  He tied her wrists to the bedposts and pulled out his hunting knife.

  When she came to, she was in a white room. She was clean. A hospital. Her chest was light, loose, empty.

  “Hello, dear, I'm glad you're awake.”

  It was her mother. She realized she hadn't seen her mother since before the miscarriage. “Mommy…” she said, and tears welled up in her eyes.

  Warm arms enfolded her, and her parents held her as she cried.

  She didn't need to ask about the pearl. She didn't want to know how she had survived. She would deal with that later.

  Secret

  He listened, silent, as she told him her story. This was a secret he was glad he hadn't found, glad he hadn't tasted. The raw hurt in her eyes was enough, the thin, thin skin peeling away as she talked. It would have choked him, torn him open. He held her close, and stroked her shoulders. “How did you live?”

  Memory

  She hadn't wanted to live for so long, but she woke up in that white room, a shadow and a whisper, and found herself clinging to the shreds of her life. The pearl had represented everything strange about her, all of her hurts bound up into a smooth little package. Maybe it was a new lease on life.

  The doctors didn't know what to make of it. For her to be alive was a miracle, given the massive trauma to her chest.

  Sentenced to six months of bed-rest, she began rebuilding herself, a little piece at a time. She pulled the colors from the world around her and created a protective chrysalis, using her secrets to hold herself together.

  Secret

  “That's when I discovered my skin,” she said. She was lying in his arms in the dark room. “It started in my chest, and filled all of the other cuts and scrapes after that. He had done so much damage that I was nearly in pieces. But I never told anyone how bad it had really been, or who had done it. My parents only saw me after I was cleaned up, and I told them that someone had mugged me, and that Ed was probably dead. When I told them that, the skin started covering my entire body. It was frightening at first, but then…it was right.”

  Memory

  With her pearl gone, she found the gaping hollow in her chest gruesome, embarrassing. She wanted to fill it with something as beautiful as the pearl. For a while, she haunted the S&M clubs, dated more abusive men, made friends in the cancer and AIDS wards. But nothing filled her except anger and more hurt. None of it helped heal the gaping wound in her chest.

  Then she met Yelena. Yelena was everything Sarah wasn't: confident, witty, outgoing, comfortable with herself. Yelena didn't see the holes or the raw flesh, she didn't find anything strange about Sarah's skin. They were happy together, Yelena protecting Sarah and Sarah caring for Yelena.

  One night Yelena whispered 'I love you' into Sarah's ear. The next morning, Sarah woke up, her fingers clutched by Yelena's, and felt a little less empty. She crept out of bed and tip-toed to the mirror, lifting her shirt in the dim light filtering through the curtains. The light shone softly red, shimmering through the red gems crusting the hole in her chest.

  No More Secrets, No More Memories

  “There's no hole there at all,” he said softly, brushing his fingers over her smooth skin.

  “Every new bit of happiness filled it a bit more,” she said, stretching luxuriously. “Yelena and I went our separate ways, eventually. I chased happiness from city to city until I landed here. Over time, it filled out until I looked normal again, as long as I kept the scar covered. Maybe it will start growing, like the pearl did. I don't know.”

  He leaned down, kissed the smooth skin between her breasts. “And here I thought the term was 'heart of gold'.”

  “Mine's much more valuable,” she said, laughing.

  He smiled. “Valuable indeed.”

  Her laughter faded instantly. Reserve shone in her eyes.

  He rose up, straddled her waist. Pressed her hands above her head. Fear shone in her eyes as he lowered his head to kiss her. “So valuable, and no one has ever appreciated you.”

  As she trembled between his knees, he kissed her jaw, her collarbone, lower. A loose scale caught his tongue, and he worried it off of her body. A trickle of blood ran down her hip.

  “But I do. And I don't want there to be any more secrets between us.”

  Something dimmed, for a moment, old fear rising like a leviathan. She cringed, and his smile grew.

  “Silly little girl, thinking you were special. You're just another thing to add to the collection.”

  Anna went still and limp under him, her eyes closing. Sure of his victory, he leaned in to kiss her.

  “Jason?”

  “Yes, pet?”

  A small smile spread across her face. You should have talked to me, instead of tasting my dirty secrets. You think you're the first person who has done that?”

  She opened her eyes, cool and collected. “Did you ever ask where I worked? Ask to meet my friends? No, you stole from me, over and over again.”

  A knee to his groin softened his grip enough for her to throw him off. Anna scrambled off the bed and grabbed her clothes. Still clutching himself, Jason tried to follow her, but she shoved him back easily.

  “Here's the last secret, sweetheart. I'm nobody's possession.”

  *

  Spoils of War

  by Adrian Tchaikovsky

  “You know, Yot, this is particularly fine wine,” the Wasp-kinden officer said, swilling the dregs round in his bowl. Sfayot obediently leant forwards to pour him another serving before setting the jug back on the upturned barrel that served as a table.

  “The Thorn Bugs make it, in the North-Empire,” he explained.

  The Wasp man gave a surprised snort. “Who’d have thought a people so ugly could make something so pleasant.” He leant back in his seat, an elaborate thing of cane and dyed wicker that had presumably been some Commonweal noble’s pride and joy before it became spoils of war. The h
ut they were in, the Empire’s makeshift clearing house for its plunder, was piled high with all manner of goods that the Commonwealers had once held dear, some of it already boxed up and some of it loose: silks and fine cloth, rolled artwork, statuary, books and scrolls. Only the gold was missing. The gold was already on its way back to the Empire to pay for the on-going war.

  “You came with a cart, Yot,” the Wasp noted, “filled with jars. Of wine, one imagines?”

  “The Imperial army is thirsty,” Sfayot observed. He was used to Wasps cutting his name short for their convenience.

  “One might wonder why the Imperial army should not simply appropriate your cart, wine and all, rather than pay good silver.” The Wasp raised an eyebrow.

  “Why then I would not be in a position to bring more excellent wine next month,” Sfayot explained with great remorse.

  “And…?”

  “And make a gift of wine to my good friend Lieutenant Malic who was so helpful to me when I was here before.”

  Malic smiled at that. He was a factor for the Consortium of the Honest, the mercantile branch of the Wasp army. The role bred greed like a corpse bred flies, but Malic was a plain-dealing rogue of a man. “You know,” he said, “I’ve a farm in the north-east. Wife, too. Years since I last saw either of ’em, mind. Your lot, Roach-kinden, are all over there. A right curse, you are.” He said it almost fondly. “Steal anything that’s not nailed down, always shifting from place to place. Drive the customs lads half mad.” He took another mouthful of wine and his smile widened. “Not to say you don’t have your uses. This is truly fine, Yot. Don’t get me wrong, we’re taking enough liquor from the ‘Wealers to drown the Fourth Army, but it’s good to get a taste of home. The men will appreciate it.”

  Sfayot nodded, taking a moment to plan his attack. “There is a matter…”

  “I thought there might be. Speak now, while I’m in a mellow mood.”

  “I wish to travel west, and not be put in irons. Perhaps some papers? A license to trade…?”

  “Towards the front?” Malic frowned. “That’s not wise.”

  “I am aware of that.”

  “There’s a market, certainly, but it’s ugly.” The Wasp’s eyes narrowed. “But it’s not just for profits, is it, Yot? Or you’d unload here and head back east. What’s going on?” He had a hand on the barrel-table between them, an implicit threat: every man of the Wasps could spit fire from his hands. Their sting, they called it.

  “You know how we Roach-kinden live,” Sfayot said carefully. “How we travel with our families, and meet, and trade.”

  “And get moved on,” Malic added. “And steal, and sometimes exhaust the patience of the local garrison.”

  “It is just as you say,” Sfayot confirmed mildly. “My family was travelling near here, travelling and trading. One of our numbers was unwise, she wandered from our camp. I have heard she was taken up.”

  Malic stared at him for a long while. “I remember a white-haired girl,” he said at last. “That Slave Corps man had her with him, Sergeant Ban, his name was. You know this much, I take it.”

  The Roach-kinden nodded. He was white-haired as well, although in his case it could pass for age. It was a mark of the Roach-kinden: white hair and tan skin and restless feet. Sfayot was old for it, though, too old for the journey that he was considering. Lean and snow-bearded, dressed in shabby, patched clothes of green and brown and grey, he knew he looked like a beggar before this well-dressed Wasp, who wore a black and gold tunic over looted Dragonfly satins.

  “My daughter,” Sfayot said softly, watching the other man’s face. “She is but thirteen years.”

  Malic nodded, taking a little more wine. His face was not without sympathy. “Then yes, Ban’s gone west to pick up another chain. Seems like every Slave Corps man is headed that way, and I hear they still have more prisoners than they know what to do with. I’d guess he saw your lass and took a shine to her. Slave Corps,” he added, with faint disgust. “You understand, in the Empire even the worst have a role to play, and the slavers fill it well. I remember she was a pretty enough lass, for a Roach.”

  Sfayot said nothing.

  “Means she’s more likely to stay whole on the trip,” Malic noted. “Unless she catches the eye of some officer on the road, he’ll want to get her back to the good markets, back home. At this end we’re glutted with slaves, you can’t give them away. What will you do when you find Ban?” The question was thrown in without warning. Malic regarded him keenly.

  “Offer him a good price,” Sfayot said without hesitation. “I am not a Wasp. My people do not fight or demand vengeance or harbor grudges. We cannot afford such luxuries.”

  Malic’s face had a strange look on it, almost a sad one. “I’ll give you papers to trade,” he said abruptly, “and to travel. I wish you luck, Yot. I hope you find her, and I hope she’s not too damaged when you do.” There was something about his manner that suggested that he might have done as much even without the wine. Greedy, corrupt men, as opposed to upright, honest soldiers, had more leeway for spontaneous kindnesses as well as private evils.

  Sfayot watched him sign the scroll, sealing it with black wax and the Consortium’s imprint.

  * *** *

  He had lied to Malic, of course, but only a little, details that would have complicated matters. The girl had not simply wandered off: Roach-kinden knew better than that. Their roving lifestyle, across the Empire and the Commonweal both, was to avoid the persecutions of government. In the Empire it didn’t do to stay too much in one place, lest someone decided that made you property. You stuck with your family because they were all you could rely on.

  Sfayot’s family had been in the little village of Nalfers, an occupied town with a garrison, but one the Wasps apparently decided needed sacking anyway. Perhaps orders had been misunderstood, perhaps the local troops had gotten drunk and leery. In any event, nobody would be visiting Nalfers anymore. When Sfayot’s family had finally regrouped the next morning, within sight of the rising smoke, he discovered that a cousin and a nephew were dead, and his daughter missing. A niece had seen her dragged off by a slaver, the man’s trade clear by his full-face helm.

  His family had begged him not to go looking for her, for it was certain where the slaver was headed: the warfront, a place Roach families did not go near. There was nothing for them there. The advancing plough-blade of war was a steel barrier they could not cross, and what was left exposed on the upturned earth behind it was rumored to be worse than the fighting itself. The Wasps were a hard, wild people. Their army forced them to obey orders when they were on duty, and so when they were released from it they became monsters.

  But Sfayot had left, taking the caravan east in slow pursuit. He was old, and it had seemed unlikely he would ever achieve any great thing in his life. Perhaps retrieving his daughter could be that thing. Certainly if he died, and he accepted this was likely, then the loss to his family would not be great: one less mouth to feed in a harsh season.

  The roads to the front were clogged with soldiers and army transports: reinforcements heading for the front, slaves and plunder being escorted home again. Sfayot passed smoke-belching automotives with cages full of thin, dispirited Dragonfly- and Grasshopper-kinden, men and women bound to feed the Empire’s infinite capacity for human servitude. He did not approach the slavers, for there was room enough in those cages for an inquisitive old Roach-kinden, but he asked many questions of others about a white-haired girl. Sometimes, he got answers.

  He found a military camp a few nights later, and peddled his wine to the Wasp officers, showing them his papers. Malic had been better than his word, it seemed. The conduct passes were faultless, and he was neither robbed nor beaten, more than a Roach-kinden would normally expect from Wasps anywhere. Eventually, he fell in with a squad of Bee-kinden Auxillians from Vesserett in the East Empire, hundreds of miles further from their home than anyone else was. The Bees of Vesserett had a proud and embattled history, and at one time had look
ed to be in a position to destroy the burgeoning Wasp Empire almost before it began. These men, though, short and dark and weather-beaten, were simply tired.

  When Sfayot spoke of their homeland, that he had seen more recently than they, they let him into their circle and drank to (perhaps this is a UK vs. US expression) his health. After his questions had gone around the fire, someone called over a tiny Fly-kinden man because “Ferro knows everything.” Ferro was not in uniform, and Sfayot understood he was a freelance hunter engaged in tracking down fugitive Dragonfly nobles. The Empire had determined that certain Commonweal bloodlines must be terminated without scion, and so professionals like Ferro made a healthy living.

  Ferro was as good as his reputation. He had seen such a girl, and he named Sergeant Ban without prompting. They had gone to Shona, he said, Shon Aeres as had been, and maybe Ban was going to fill his string of slaves there. A bad place, Ferro confided, did Sfayot know it?

  “Only before the war,” the Roach replied guardedly.

  Ferro nodded, abruptly nostalgic. “Ah, before the war this was a beautiful country. I stayed at the castles of the nobility, at their summer retreats. I tracked brigands for them.” He drank more of Sfayot’s wine with the expression of a connoisseur. “Now it is those nobles I hunt down like animals, so the Wasps can put them on crossed pikes. So the wheel turns.” It would seem Ferro’s sense of balance enabled him to walk said wheel as it ground over those less fortunate.

  Sfayot set out for Shona the next morning. Ferro’s talk of the Dragonfly nobility had stirred no nostalgia in his breast. There were plenty of times the lords of the Commonweal had forced his family to move, sometimes punishing them in the process with whips and beatings. The Commonwealers did not have the cruelty and savagery of the Wasps, but they did not like a people who wandered where they would and did not fit in. Sfayot himself had been hauled before some headman or prince enough times, and seen in those aristocratic eyes a keen loathing of a man who was neither servant nor master.