How Dark the World Becomes

by Frank Chadwick

  “So, did the jarheads treat you rough last night?” she asked after a moment, smiling wickedly, but a little friendlier, too.

  I touched the shirt over my upper left chest, feeling the bandage there, and winced.

  “Yeah. Well . . . you know what it’s like.”

  She shook her head.

  “No, I’m afraid I don’t. It’s a rare tribute, being made an honorary lance corporal in the Corps, one I’ve never experienced.”

  “Well, they’ll . . .”

  I started to say they’d get around to it, but I shut up, because it occurred to me they probably wouldn’t. Not after what happened out by the gas giant. The Navy might give her a medal, and the Marines on board undoubtedly respected her, but all of a sudden I knew they wouldn’t make her an honorary Marine. I shook my head.

  “It’s not . . . ,” I started, but I just trailed off.

  “Fair?” she finished for me with an ironic smile, and it sounded as stupid spoken out loud as it had in my head.

  “Dammit, Commodore, they’ve gotta know how much you care about them.” I remembered the way she’d said my Marines, like a lioness about to tear apart someone who’d murdered her cubs. But she just shrugged.

  “Caring isn’t enough, Mr. Naradnyo. Not nearly enough. You’ve also got to bring them back. You did, and whether it was due to skill and cunning, or just blind dumb luck, I will always be deeply grateful.”

  Then she stood up and offered her hand, and I rose and shook it.

  “Mr. Naradnyo, I also offer you the sincere, if unofficial, thanks of the Department of the Navy of the United States of North America. I doubt that anything more public will be forthcoming.”

  “The handshake means more to me, Commodore.”

  “Well . . . that’s very kind of you to say, Mr. Naradnyo, and I appreciate the sentiment.” She was momentarily embarrassed, but recovered quickly. “I doubt that it will end up mattering as much as someone nailing that Marine brass to your bare chest last night. Who did the honors?”

  “Sergeant Wataski.”

  She shook her head and laughed.

  “You poor bastard! Oh . . . and now you’re fired.”

  * * *

  It was terrific seeing Ping again, and he got pretty choked up when the kids ran to him and engulfed him in those long, bony lizard arms. He’d gone practically crazy with worry, just sitting on the Fitz, unable to do anything to help, following our cross-country odyssey of fire and misdirection by recorded comm traffic, as well as a daily update from Gasiri’s Smart Boss—that’s what the Navy guys called their intelligence officer.

  Ping made us tell him an overview, and then promise we’d tell him the detailed story later. But for now, it was just great to see him again. We really hadn’t known each other for very long, but we’d gone through so much together, shared so much, been prepared to die together, that there was a bond between us now that—even if we didn’t see each other for another ten years—would never disappear.

  We’d have time to catch up, in any case. Gasiri was sending a transport back to Akaampta, carrying the Varoki wounded, as well as the ship crew survivors from the Hoka cruiser and the five uZmataanki Marine prisoners that had stayed in custody—and alive—through all that hell down below.

  And we were riding along as well.

  It was an uBakai troop transport—ABk-401—so we were something by way of celebrities. If they had wind of the coming shit-storm over the K’Tok eco-form project, none of them seemed to understand what it might mean. As far as they were concerned, we were all still pals. There was a lot of space on the ABk-401, since its troops were deployed down on K’Tok, and so the five of us had a troop module all to ourselves. All of the lockers with the troops’ personal possessions were moved into six of the module’s ten dormers and secured, but we had the use of the common space and the four remaining dormers. Ping, Marfoglia, and I each had our own, and Barraki and Tweezaa were in the fourth. Our first night outbound from K’Tok’s orbit, Marfoglia softly closed the door to their room.

  “They’re both down. Exciting week, but exhaustion finally got the better of them.”

  “Great kids,” I said, and meant it.

  “They love you,” she answered. “You treat them like people, not like little animals or cute decorations. That’s rare.”

  “Well, you know. It’s not like I don’t have . . . Varoki friends.” It was pretty interesting how leather-head didn’t come comfortably to my lips anymore.

  “Like Mr. Arrakatlak,” she said, smiling, “who would be sad if he had to kill you.”

  I grinned back and shook my head. “Arrie would be sad if anyone killed me; he’d be brokenhearted if he had to do it.”

  We both started to laugh, but Marfoglia put her hand over her mouth to muffle the sound and waved me away from the door. We stepped away and then stood there for a moment, friends—maybe for the first time.

  Ping was reading in the common room, but he looked up and smiled.

  “Tell me something. How long have you two been protecting those kids now?”

  Marfoglia and I looked at each other and thought.

  “Something like fifty-one or -two standard days, by the calendar,” I answered. “But that includes slide time when we went through J-space. I think forty-seven days without the slide.”

  She nodded.

  “Well, a couple days longer, for you,” I added. “You were on your own—until I broke into your apartment.”

  “You saved our lives that night, and I never thanked you.”

  I shrugged it off.

  “Forget it, Doctor. That was a . . . pretty horrible night. Sorry you had to see it. You know, all you guys.”

  “I know. But at least call me Marr.”

  “Okay. Marr.”

  “The reason I ask,” Ping said, “is that it occurs to me that in those forty-seven, or fifty-two, or however many days, neither of you has had a day off. You’ve been watching those kids all day, every day. Why don’t you take the night off? They’re both asleep. Leave their safety and security to me and the crew of ABk-401.”

  “Take the night off?” I asked. “And do what? We’re on a military transport in deep space, coasting to a jump point.”

  “I don’t know. Go see what kind of dinner they can put together for you in the galley. Take a walk around and see what a transport looks like from the inside. The main thing is, take a night off from worrying. Nobody on this ship is here to hurt those two children.”

  Well, he was right about that. I looked at Marfoglia—Marr. She shrugged and gave me a funny, lopsided smile. I’d never seen that smile from her before, and I had the feeling I was seeing her real smile—not the practiced, cultivated one.

  “Want to go exploring?” she asked.

  “Sure. Why not?”

  * * *

  The troop modules were attached to the outer rim of the big wheel, so you had to climb up a spiral staircase to get to the main hull. We climbed up into the interior of the transport and wandered around for an hour or two. I enjoyed looking at things without having to assess them as potential threats or hiding places.

  Not that I didn’t do that—I just did it out of habit, not necessity, and that was a luxury by itself.

  So we wandered awhile, figuring out what the various equipment spaces were for, sometimes asking the crew questions—at least Marr did. My aGavoosh wasn’t up to it yet. aGavoosh is a guttural language—lots of hard sounds in the back of the throat along with those clicks—but it sounded nice coming out of Marr’s mouth. I liked listening to the questions and answers, and watching the expressions dance across her face as she spoke, her eyes lighting up, her lips . . .

  Oh, now, wait a minute. Wait just one goddamned minute. This wasn’t gonna happen. No way. Fantasizing about casual sex was one thing, but this was an entirely different animal. There were reasons—really good reasons—why it absolutely could not happen.

  The crewman we were talking to pointed to an observation port
one deck up, and Marr put her hand on my shoulder.

  “Oh, let’s see what kind of view there is,” she said.

  I didn’t say anything, because my shoulder was tingling, and a shiver of pleasure had gone through my entire body when she touched me. Even the goddamned hair on the back of my neck stood up from the adrenaline surge—and that wasn’t the only thing standing up. I followed her, but was careful not to brush against her. I didn’t know what would happen if I did, didn’t know what to do or what to say or what was coming next. I am not awkward around women—I’m actually as comfortable with them as with men—so this was uncharted territory for me. All of a sudden I felt like a sixteen-year-old kid again, and I didn’t much like the feeling.

  Well . . . that’s bullshit. I loved the feeling. It felt terrible, but it felt great, too, and all of a sudden I had to fight to keep a goofy grin off my face—that or a look of sheer panic.

  From the observation port we could see back along the spine of the ship to the fuel tanks and drive module, and behind us was K’Tok—all pale blue seas and gossamer white clouds.

  “It’s beautiful,” she said.

  Yup. Sure was.

  “You’re pretty quiet all of a sudden,” she said and looked at me. I smiled.

  “I think I’m getting hungry,” I answered. “What do you say—should we find the galley and try our luck?”

  * * *

  ABk-401 was an uBakai transport, so the crew was all Varoki—Marr, Ping, and I were the only Humans onboard. But it was a fleet transport, and that meant it could put meals on tables for any and all of the six races anytime it had to.

  That didn’t mean they were necessarily great meals, and there probably wasn’t going to be a lot of variety for the next few days, but what they served that night tasted pretty damned good.

  “How’s the chicken katsu?” Marr asked.

  “Terrific! I think it’s better than back on the shuttle.”

  “Really?” she asked, surprised. “I thought that was the best chicken I’d had in a long time.”

  “The flavor was good, but I thought the texture was odd—sort of stringy.”

  She looked down at her plate, suddenly interested in her food, and I could see she was trying to hide a smile. But it was a gentle smile—not unkind at all.

  “What?” I asked.

  She raised her face and looked at me fondly. “Sasha, back on the shuttle—that was real chicken.”

  “Really?”

  “Yes, really.”

  “Huh! You mean they killed a real chicken?”

  She laughed softly in simple delight, the sound of a tinkling wind chime.

  “Well, somebody did, somewhere, yes. And it was flash frozen until they cooked it for you that night. That was a deluxe flight, and that meant real food, not flavored protein imitations—except for that Paleo Special.”

  “So . . . if I’d ordered the veal . . .”

  “Yes,” she said, and then looked at me oddly. “I don’t believe it! It bothers you.” Her face broke into the broadest grin I’d ever seen on her.

  “No, of course not . . . It’s just a chicken.”

  “Yes, a chicken. But it bothers you. It does! I can tell. The big tough bodyguard is squeamish about a little dead chicken!” She covered her mouth with her napkin to smother the laughter, and I could feel my ears turning hot.

  The idea that it bothered me was absurd, of course, but there wasn’t any point in arguing with her about it. I’ll admit I was glad the transport just used flavored soy protein, but not because I felt sorry for the chicken—that would be stupid. The thought of all the blood and feathers and internal stuff just didn’t seem . . . sanitary, that’s all.

  “Oh, Sasha! I think you may be the most complicated man I have ever known,” she said, laughing, and her voice gave me a strange thrill . . . a thrill which I knew right away was dangerous and very, very bad.

  “Nah. I bet there are a dozen guys waiting in line to have their hearts broken when you get home to Earth.”

  She looked down, her smile still there but sort of melancholy, and she picked at her salad with her fork.

  “The truth is, Sasha, I’m not very good at . . . connecting with people. I don’t form bonds, or at least not strong bonds.”

  “Why not?” An hour ago I’d never have asked that, because it wasn’t any of my business, but somehow it had become my business, and that was interesting, wasn’t it?

  “Some sort of attachment disorder from childhood, I suppose. That’s what my therapists said, anyway. My parents were gone a lot. Then they were dead—killed in a plane crash. My aunt and uncle gave me financial security, and a home, sort of—a room of my own for the summer, and boarding schools the rest of the time. Wonderful boarding schools . . . not the sort of life anyone has any right complaining about.”

  “But not a lot of love,” I said.

  She smiled wistfully and shook her head. “I was . . . very promiscuous when I was younger. I suppose I was looking for something, someone, anyone really . . . but it didn’t help.”

  “Your ‘bad boy’ phase,” I said, and she nodded. She blushed, too.

  “I miss out on all the fun.”

  She laughed. “You’d have liked me even less back then, I think. What was your childhood like?”

  “You sure you want to know?”

  “Why not? Was it very bad?”

  I nodded. “Yeah, looking back on it, it was pretty awful. But the truth is, when you’re a kid, you don’t know what’s normal and what isn’t. One thing we’ve got in common: we’re both orphans.”

  So I told her the story of my younger days, how my father, mother, and older sister had gone out one day—one of the bad days, during the food riots—and only my mother had come back, her clothes torn, face bleeding. She’d never said anything to me, hadn’t even seemed to see me standing there. She’d just gotten undressed and gone to bed and never got up again. She wouldn’t eat, wouldn’t even drink water, no matter how much I begged her. She’d pissed and shit right in the bed, and laid in it, and eventually died there, I guess from dehydration.

  “The bitch,” Marr said, and the anger in her voice surprised me.

  “She was . . . I don’t know . . . sad . . . ,” I started.

  “How old were you?”

  “Seven, near as I can remember.”

  “She left a seven-year-old boy to fend for himself because she couldn’t face the world.”

  “She’d lost everything.”

  “No, she hadn’t. She still had you, but you weren’t enough to keep her alive, were you? How did that make you feel?”

  “I never thought about it.”

  “I don’t believe you. Did you have relatives?”

  “No. And there were stories going around about the orphanages—how they chopped little boys and girls up for food. You know the kind of stories kids tell, but I was a little kid myself, and I believed it, so I hid. I stole food for a while, until the local merchants started getting wise to my hiding places. Then I hooked up with what’s called a bezzie pack. Bezzie is short for bezprizornye; it’s what the old-timers from Ukraine used to call wild orphans. There were a lot of us there for a while. A few of us survived.”

  She didn’t say anything for a while, but her eyes looked so sad I thought she might start crying. But she didn’t, and while I was watching her, I understood why she had agreed to take care of Barraki and Tweezaa, risk everything—even her life—to help two orphans she’d never met before. They weren’t even the same species as her—not that that had slowed her up.

  Or me, either, come to think of it.

  She shook her head after a minute.

  “Here you had a childhood that was a . . . a nightmare, and you don’t have a problem bonding . . . connecting with people. There’s something really wrong with me.”

  I laughed, and she looked up sharply. I shook my head.

  “Marr, I’m not laughing at you, honest to God. It’s just the idea that I’m the norma
l one . . . I mean, that’s pretty rich. Let me tell you something. That day before I met you, the woman I lived with tried to have me murdered.”

  “Did you . . . ?” she started, but couldn’t finish the question. I shook my head.

  “No, I didn’t hurt her . . . I’d lived with her for six years—six really good years; I couldn’t hurt her. I sent her away with some money.

  “Here’s the thing, though; I don’t miss her. I never missed her, not for one second. I don’t hate her. I don’t have any bitterness, or anger. I don’t feel anything. Six years, Marr. Six years of the most intimate relationship of my life, capped with an attempted murder, and I don’t feel a goddamned thing, one way or another. So you think you’ve got attachment issues?”

  This was not exactly turning out to be the romantic dinner I had half hoped and half feared it might. Instead it was devolving into true confessions of the emotionally halt and lame. I put down my fork and leaned back in my chair, no longer hungry. Marr sat looking off to one side, lost in thought. After a moment she turned and looked at me, and her expression was odd—serious, curious, but not sad like before.

  “Sasha, this lady friend of yours . . . in the six years you were with her, were you ever scared you’d lose her?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You know . . . really frightened. Down here,” she said, and touched her stomach with her hand.

  “No,” I answered, after thinking about it for a moment, “never.”

  “Has there ever been anyone you were frightened of losing? Someone that . . . the thought that they might not go on being a part of your life . . . really terrified you, drove you almost to panic?”

  I looked away.

  I looked away because suddenly I couldn’t speak. Since my family had died, I had never been scared of losing anyone, ever in my life. Ever.

  Until right then.

  Then I felt her hand on mine, and when I turned, there were tears glistening in her eyes.

  “Me, too,” was all she said, her voice husky with emotion.

  I looked at her and then shook my head.

  “Son of a bitch! You’re the cigar that’ll ruin me for everything, aren’t you?”

  She looked puzzled, so I told her the story of that perfect imported cigar, and how I’d never smoked another local cigar or cigarette again. She got sort of a dreamy look when I described how perfect everything was about it. When I finished, she sat there for a long time, just looking at me. It gave me an odd feeling, because I was looking right back at her, and I had no idea what was going on behind those green eyes.