by Wen Spencer
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 freshly 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.
Turk wasn't expecting the ambush at all. One minute he was alone on the top deck, tasting his first attempt at lemonade, and the next he was looking at Hillary wearing a skin-tight yellow dress that covered far too little. She spun in a circle in front of him, ending with her back to him, showing off the fact that the hem of the dress barely covered her panties. "Well?" She looked over her shoulder at him. "I have to go buy supplies. What do you think? Is this good?"
"No!" He snapped once he got done choking on his lemonade.
"What's wrong with it?" She turned around to face him. "Is the color wrong for me?"
It was a perfect color for her. It was young and flirty and far too little of it. True the women on Paradise wore much less, but they were in private enclaves with high security to protect them from the dregs of society. Here at Ya-ya, they were shoulder to shoulder with the seedier crowd. Paige had moved the Rosetta to a cheaper berth, and their neighbors showed it.
"Go change," he growled at the teenager.
"Why?"
"Because it gives men the wrong idea."
"No, I think that's exactly the idea I want them to get."
"This is not the place for something like that. Go change."
She shook a finger at him. "You are not the boss of me."
Luckily Paige was Hillary's boss, and appeared behind Hillary.
"Look at what Hillary's wearing." Turk wished he didn't sound like a five-year old.
"I know." Paige held out a hand, forestalling him from saying more. "I know. I know."
"You're going let her leave like that?" he asked.
"I can take care of myself," Hillary said as Paige said, "She can take care of herself."
Obviously they were both naïve and delusional. He had no choice; it was clear what he had to do. "I'm going with her."
Paige laughed and kissed him. For a moment, with her soft and warm in his arms, he almost changed his mind. With the Baileys, though, there always seemed an unspoken element to any interaction; he was just starting to perceive it. Paige hadn't told him not to go; the kiss may have even been a reward for declaring would go.
* * *
"It's going to be hard for me to pick up boys if you're along." Hillary complained as they worked through the maze of anchored and moving boats in Ya-ya's busy harbor.
He laughed but didn't add that was the point of him accompanying her. "A man likes to hunt, not be hunted."
"Oh, is that why Paige and you took so long, Oni-chan?"
It still amazed him that none of the Rosetta's crew seemed upset that Paige was sleeping with a Red. He wondered if Paige threatened them with bodily harm to keep them all complacent. While they neither flaunted nor hid their relationship, he wasn't comfortable in talking about it. Discussing it meant defining it and he didn't want his nose pushed into any ugly truths.
"What does oni-chan mean?" he asked instead.
"Big brother." Hillary gave him an impish grin. Did she know how unsettled she was making him? "Do you want to know what the word for little sister is?"
"No." That was a dangerous game to play. "I'm not your big brother."
"You will be if you marry Paige." She gave him another grin and sang, "Oni-chan."
Either Hillary had forgotten that he was a Red or she was even more naïve than he thought. Reds didn't get married. How did Paige think her little sister could go off alone? Or was Paige just as naïve as her sister? That had to be it; else Paige would never let her off the ship wearing such a skimpy outfit.
"I can take care of myself, oni-chan," Hiliary said. "I don't need a big, sweaty brother glowering over my shoulder, chasing everyone away with his evil looks and manly smell."
He gave her a dark look in an attempt to quiet her. "I'm missing what you think passes as a shower to come with you."
"You don't like our shower?"
"No." The Rosetta lacked abundant fresh water, the means to heat it beyond tepid, and anything you could call 'pressure.' Showering was like being repeatedly spit on.
"We could go to the bathhouse!" She veered the boat wildly to head off in a new direction.
"Bathhouse?" The idea of a good shower was appealing, but somehow he didn't this was a good idea.
"Ya-ya has public bathing facilities."
"Really?" There had to be a catch. "What are they like?"
"You pay a fee to get in and can stay as long as you want."
"Why would you want to stay?"
"It feels good to soak in a hot tub. Relax. Talk." She smirked at him. "Wash each others backs."
"They're . . ." he didn't know the word in English. "How you say it? Both sexes?"
"Co-ed. Yes!"
"Nyet!" Good god, Paige would shoot him!
Hilary laughed at his discomfort.
Turk turned his back to her, looked across the harbor and forgot how to breathe.
The Svoboda sat tied off at a dock. The Svoboda hadn't sunk.
He stared dumbfounded at it until he realized that Hilary was going to go past the ship without stopping.
He bolted up. "Stop!"
"Turk!" Hilary cried as the boat rocked wildly under him.
"That's my ship!" He scrambled to the back of the boat and took control of the rudder.
Hillary followed his gaze and went wide-eyed.
The bridge had been sheered off by its collusion with the floating island. Mikhail would have been on the bridge. Had he survived?
There were Reds on guard. The nearest was Rabbit, who recognized him with a stunned look. "Commander Turk? You're alive?"
"Yes, I am." Turk scrambled up onto the dock beside the little tom.
The yearling surprised him by hugging him. "I'm so glad! I'm so glad!"
"What about Captain Volkov?"
"He'll be glad too!" Rabbit misunderstood the question. "I've been worried about him. I know you would want me to keep him safe, so I've been watching him. It's like he's growing smaller and smaller, growing inward. When he went off shift, he said goodbye to me. Like he was leaving."
Oh, that idiot. Of course, Mikhail would have fought to stay together until his crew was safe. Coming to Ya-ya, with all the obvious signs of civilization, would have been "safety." It would release Mikhail from his sense of responsibility. Turk nearly bolted to the ship but realized that he'd be leaving Hillary alone. In that dress.
"Rabbit. This is Hillary. Go with her. Keep her safe. Hillary this is Rabbit. You can trust him. He's a good man."
His responsibilities to one ship covered, he hurried to the Svoboda to save Mikhail from himself.
* * *
Mikhail turned the gun in his hand, feeling the cool metal warm with h
is touch. Guns were always so messy and uncertain. There was a slim chance he could survive—well—at least back home, on a safe and sane world. The noise would bring people, and medical crews would be summoned, and parts of him might be salvaged—enough most likely for a clone to be made. He laughed tiredly. Perhaps it was just as well he was someplace where that was impossible—he would hate to think of leaving a helpless part of him behind, forced to go through his hell, this time alone. There would be no Turk.
