When was the last time you felt shame? For that indeed was what he was feeling. And rightly so. James frowned, and tried swatting away the thought. He’d been beating himself up every waking moment since the morning after it happened. You’ve officially sunk to Troy’s level of seediness, you over-sexed nymph.
And he was no closer to reconciling his emotions than he was when he’d started his penance. It was driving him nuts, and his mood had become seriously depressed, even maudlin. They were feelings he was unaccustomed to; prior to this… debacle… the only time he’d ever come close to feeling this shitty was when he’d totalled his first car – a 2385 Ford Triumph – when he was nineteen.
And that had been an accident, pure and simple, a result of over-confidence, speed and a wet road. For this, he had no such excuses to hide behind.
Just as concerning for him, besides the potential damage to his already fragile marriage, was the potential damage to his career – sleeping with colleagues or subordinates (of which Chamberlain was both) was still forbidden, and strictly enforced, a serious enough infraction that could potentially get you cashiered out.
So, in addition to fucking up your marriage, you’ve fucked your career. Well done, genius.
“Bridge to Ensign Hunter.”
James sighed, resenting being broken out of his reverie, yet grateful for it at the same time. Perhaps, if he could distract himself long enough, he could come back to solving his majorly fucked up life with a clarity he didn’t possess.
“Hunter here.”
“Ensign, the Potemkin will be arriving in a few minutes. Airlock Two.”
James exhaled noisily. For one brief moment, he’d almost forgotten about his transfer – he didn’t want to go, he didn’t want to stay. He just wanted the universe to swallow him, and his misery, whole. “I’ll be right there.”
The bridge officer signed off without another word, and James was left alone.
Perhaps in more ways than one.
*
“You didn’t have to drop me off.”
Jennifer Carmichael smiled sweetly at Ahmet Holm as the door next to her slowly glided open. There was a chill to the air, no doubt left behind by the storm that had swept across the Citadel an hour earlier – the thunder had threatened to override her percussion players.
“It really was no problem, Jennifer,” Ahmet said gently. He’d come to the rescue when Jennifer’s initial ride home had fallen through at the last-minute. “Especially after you gave such an amazing performance tonight.”
Jennifer smiled triumphantly – even she was impressed with how well the concert had turned out: a sell-out crowd to see a three-hour performance of Williams, and Mahler, performed by the various youth orchestras that she had cobbled together on Bastion.
Even her husband would have been impressed, and he was usually hard to please, even if he found himself in the conductor’s seat. In fairness, though, James was a rather unique musician, even if he was his own worst critic.
Jennifer frowned internally. Since when did she start referring to her husband in the past-tense? He’d messaged her just that morning, and while he was shaken, he was very much alive. So why did I just think as if he was lost to me?
She pondered that. Maybe it was just an artefact of her being lonely.
And she was lonely. She was human, after all, she had needs, needs that her husband couldn’t possibly meet given the current climate. I knew this would happen, but that doesn’t lessen the impact. She’d spoken to several other wives of active service personnel, and they were all saying the same thing as Jennifer.
“Well, I’m just glad you didn’t see the rehearsals,” she said finally, quelling the rising unrest within her.
Ahmet laughed pleasantly. He was shrouded in shadows, pushed up against the corner of his portion of the limo. A tall man with a solid build and thinning hair, he had lived on Bastion for the last forty years after emigrating away from his native Turkey. A fierce patron of the arts, he had been a significant benefactor of Bastion Symphony Orchestra since before Jennifer had ascended to the post of Principle Conductor.
Although the two had known of each other for some years – Jennifer knew every major contributor to the BSO – they’d only been properly introduced six months earlier at a fundraiser for returning veterans. Like Jennifer, he’d been a generous donor (although, not having the deep pockets Jennifer did, his was understandably smaller).
“Hyperion Towers, eh? Very fancy. How far up do you live?” he asked, leaning over and sticking his head out of the door as he looked up at the towering hulk of glass and steel.
“The lower penthouse suite,” Jennifer said, pointing to the cloud-obscured precipice, as she swung her legs out of the car, tucking her skirt down to try and keep the cold out. “My husband has owned it for years… and, conveniently for me, his brother lives in the penthouse above.”
“Indeed?” Ahmet said as he stepped out after her, fastening the buttons on his jacket and adjusting his tie. His following her surprised her – they had made light chatter in the car, truly inane topics, and she had assumed she would just get out of the car and make her way up. “That would mean your husband is a part of a Grande family?”
Jennifer smiled, nodding a salute as she perched her purse under her shoulder – she was pretty sure Ahmet already knew all this, of course. It was rare indeed to find someone who didn’t know what the name Hunter meant. “That’s a name that isn’t bandied about much anymore, but yes, he is.”
“Impressive,” Ahmet said, his English accentuated by the lyrical tilt his accent gave him – in fifty years, he still hadn’t picked up the regional accent of Bastion, which itself seemed to be a hybrid of London and Boston. “So, your brother-in-law has the kids now?”
Jennifer frowned, apprehension gnawing at her – why was he so interested in her? “Yeah, they’re over at his house right now.” She gestured up to the penthouse. “Speaking of which, I have to go rescue my kids from their uncle… or rescue him from them.”
“Would you like me to, uh, escort you up?”
There was something in his voice, a lyrical lilt that dripped of romance or lust, and finally it clicked into place what he wanted. Apart of her was repulsed – he wasn’t her type, for a start, to say nothing of her being married… even as these thoughts percolated, she was fingering her wedding ring for solace and comfort… Not that it’s been enough to dissuade Ahmet.
On the other hand, however, a part of her was flattered. Although she did have her fair share of male admirers, most of them had the decency – or cowardice – to keep that admiration to themselves, and so remained professional the vast majority of the time. Very rarely did anyone even try to flirt with her.
“Ahmet, I’m flattered,” she said, trying to smile as she held up her ring finger, tapping the diamond jewel gently. The ring had cost as much as a beach-front property. “And it’s sweet, I guess, but… Ahmet, if I was going to fuck you, we’d already be doing it.”
He looked crestfallen as he rubbed his chin – and that was when Jennifer noticed his own wedding band. Son-of-a-bitch. Even if Jennifer had fancied a random romp, she had no intention of being anyone’s other woman, even if it was for a single night.
“Are you sure –”
“Quite sure,” Jennifer said firmly, trying to soften the blow with a gentle smile. She didn’t think it worked, but she didn’t care – if she said no, she meant no. You don’t ask me if I’m sure. “But thank you so much for the lift, Ahmet, I appreciate it.”
He smiled, defeated and dejected. He bowed his head as he stepped back towards his car. “Understood,” he said. His tone was friendly enough, considering she’d just shot him down. “Well, thanks again for a splendid evening.”
And without another word, he got into the back of the black limo and departed into the black night, the cityscape swallowing the car as it ascended towards the blackened, overcast sky.
2428-2431: Seasons of Mourning
“Only the
dead have seen the end of war.” – Plato
“Mummy, where’s daddy?”
Jennifer Carmichael took a calming breath as she closed her eyes as she reached out and ran a hand over the head of Hector, who was looking for smooches… and food. Her husband had usually fed the cat in the early morning, but Jennifer – who wasn’t much of an early-morning person – had moved that to closer to midday.
Hector was a most loyal pet… to James. Hector had never shown her quite the same level of devotion as he did his original owner. Probably thinks I stole James away from him… you’d think after twenty years he’d be over it.
Jennifer snorted to herself – the idea that she had to compete with a feline for the affections of her husband was absurd… although she was definitely competing for James’ affections these days… and his attention. James had been off fighting his war for nearly four years now, and hadn’t once returned home to Bastion to see his family.
“Dad is away, Mandy,” Jennifer said soothingly. At four years old, the twin girls were perky and chatty, and asking about their father every other day – they knew who he was, of course (he joined them via holocom every chance he got), but the concept of fighting didn’t extend to much beyond the two girls pulling each other’s hair.
“When’s he coming home?” Samantha chimed in. By now, after nearly a year of facing these questions, Jennifer was beginning to suspect that all this nagging was just an act to get under her skin.
“Soon, I hope,” Jennifer said, putting down the bowl of cat food. Without so much as a thank-you, Hector was hoovering it down as if he’d never been fed. Even at 30 years old – about middle-age for a cat in this day and age – he had an almost-unhealthy appetite. “Slow down there, puss.”
“For Christmas?” Amanda asked.
“No, not for Christmas,” Jennifer replied, no longer trying to hide her exasperation. “Have you two got your bags packed for pre-school?”
“Yes, mummy.”
The scampering of little feet into the bedrooms told Jennifer that, in fact, the two girls had not done so. She smiled wistfully to herself as she returned to the coffee machine. Nursing the mug in both hands, she cast a furtive glance out the windows: the Citadel had woken to a glorious sunrise this morning, but with noon quickly approaching, the sun had become obscured by low-lying clouds: rain was forecast, along with uncomfortably strong winds.
“You’re not ready?”
“No, Troy, I’m not,” Jennifer said testily. Her brother-in-law – who made her heart ache after her husband every time she saw him, so striking was the resemblance – had let himself in, and, as expected, Adlai Hunter – just a few weeks older than her girls – was being a perfect little angel. “I need two of me to run this household.”
Troy smiled. “I know what you mean.” He reached over and ruffled Adlai’s wispy, sandy hair, ignoring his son’s squealed protests. “He’s being a good boy now, but you should have seen the tantrum he threw an hour or so ago.”
“Oh, and why was that?” Jennifer cast a disapproving look at her nephew, who deftly ignored her penetrating gaze.
“Don’t wanna go to –” Adlai’s plaintive voice trailed off and Jennifer couldn’t make out what the issue had been, but Jennifer presumed that he was reluctant to go to kindergarten again – in his latest phase, he hated leaving the house, preferring to hole up in Troy’s apartment, playing games or watching various holo-shows through his new VA.
An hour later, the three children had been dropped off at the kindergarten, and Jennifer and Troy were walking back to their apartments, accompanied with Anabelle Meloni, an African-American woman whose family had only migrated to Bastion five years before – her husband was now a junior executive for HB&S.
Anabelle – who was tall, with a solidly athletic build, with an attractive round face that was lightly freckled – was nearing 80, and was currently angling on having a fourth child; her third, Diane, was currently at kindergarten, while her older two were either in, or near, middle-school. She’d given up a career as a financial advisor to raise the children, and had befriended Jennifer when the school term had started, her presence a welcome addition now that Benicia had moved to Earth with her new husband.
The Meloni’s lived in one of the lower apartments in a residential tower across the road from Jennifer’s place, and the two women often walked back together from the kindergarten – it was rare for Troy to join them, often going into the CBD to do… whatever Troy did during his days; although he claimed to work, Jennifer had heard from both Elijah and Michael that their little brother could be doing far more.
“I thought it was supposed to rain.” As Jennifer looked up at the overcast sky, there wasn’t a drop of rain to be seen, despite the air being rather humid and the clouds above looking like they were ready to drop like a woman nine-months pregnant.
“Be grateful it isn’t, since we’re walking,” Troy muttered, even as his personal force-field rippled into existence over his torso and legs, covering his body in a shimmering hue. Jennifer rolled her eyes at the cowardly display – the Amani suit he was wearing was water-proof enough, he didn’t need to use his extravagant cybernetics to keep dry, too. Especially since it isn’t raining!
“You’re awfully quiet today, Anne,” Jennifer said, ignoring Troy – a nice trick her husband had taught her over the years. As much as she loved Troy, he was damn annoying at times… well, most of the time, actually.
“I’m stressed. Our investment properties in Greenwood didn’t reap in as much as I had hoped,” Anabelle complained, in her classic New York accent, as she clutched her Versace handbag tightly – she, at least, had something to worry about, as her clothes weren’t as water resistant. And high-grade cybernetics are out of the question on her budget. “We had to settle for nearly fifty-k below our reserve… which was low enough to begin with.”
Despite being reasonably well-off, Anabelle and Hassan were always trying to get ahead – they had a sizeable property portfolio, and regularly bought properties and flipped ‘em a few months later, after renovating and modernising them, for a modest profit. It was the main method of making semi-generous income on Bastion these days outside of working for the big conglomerates.
“Given the uncertainty in the markets, people aren’t willing to sell, much less buy additional properties,” Troy offered unhelpfully. “And it’ll be worse: next year the Citadel is advancing the new suburban developments by a few years.” He made a sweeping gesture towards the general direction of the new estates… Not that they could see anything, boxed in like they were by towers of steel and glass.
“Why?” Anabelle asked, frowning apprehensively – a swamp of new developments would depress prices even more than the policy of selling houses at market value had already done. While not exactly a market crash, a depression in property prices in this environment would still be devastating. If it walks like a duck and quacks like a duck…
“War refugees,” Jennifer said, surprised she had to explain that – the war was the primary topic of conversation these days. Everyone, at the very least, knew the effect it was having on Commonwealth society, from the economy to the entertainment industries. News from the front-lines was at the forefront of nearly every conversation. “A third group is due to arrive early next year… Earth Standard Time, of course.”
Anabelle sighed; 2429 was just a couple of months away, at least according to Earth’s calendar. “Y’know, for just a minute there, I forgot there was a war on.” Jennifer laughed, a little forced, while Troy just smiled. “So, I suppose you’re saying I should get out of the market while I’m ahead?”
“Wrong people to ask, Anne – we don’t do property, not these days. No money in it… well, serious money.” Troy held up his hands as if he was surrendering, shaking his head as they stopped on the kerb. The streets were crowded today, with lots of cars coming and going – either on the ground or in the air. “And I wish we could all forget about the war, if only for a time. It’s so depress
ing.”
They crossed the street in silence, giving a wide berth to a car that was landing into a parallel park, and turning left down Lexington Drive. Most people seemed to be in a rush to avoid the threatening rain, walking briskly and sticking close to the buildings for cover. In the distance, a flash of lightening morphed into a roll of thunder.
“Stop staring, Troy,” Jennifer warned after watching her brother-in-law for a few moments. He was definitely checking out the ass of the guy walking a dozen steps in front of them – he had short hair, broad shoulders and he definitely went to the gym frequently.
“Why?” Troy asked airily… or wearily. Possibly both. He’d been enjoying the company of men less frequently these days because of Adlai, which both surprised Jennifer – a decade ago, she’d have thought it impossible for her brother-in-law to keep it in his pants for more than a day.
“Because it’s rude,” Jennifer hissed, hitting his arm as Anne cackled out loud – if the guy ahead heard them, he paid them no heed. “And besides, I saw him first.”
“Wanna share?”
“You’re disgusting,” chorused Jennifer and Annabelle, who both shared a laugh at Troy’s hurt look as he stopped in his tracks and fixed Jennifer with a pained expression.
“It’s been ten days, Jen!” he said, as if imploring her. “I haven’t gone this long since I was a teen! It’s agony.”
“Oh, grow up, you mewling baby,” said Jennifer, smirking and pushing him in the back to get him going. He exaggerated the shove and carried himself like a petulant child. He glowered at the heavens above them, sniffing in disdain a single drop of rain had splashed across his screen, and even as he looked, another splashed over his head.
“Have you all done your Christmas shopping?”
A Call to Arms Page 14
