by S. J. Higbee
I nibbled at the dessert, aware all that sticky sweetness would only make me sleepier, managing to hang on until coffee was served. Gratefully, I drank three cups, hoping the caffeine rush would keep me going till the end of this interminable evening.
Even so, I was still feeling thick-headed when Norman called across the table, “Elizabeth, my darling, can I trouble you to perform a couple of songs for us, tonight?”
You had plenty of time to prepare me for this, but you didn’t. Another of your tests, no doubt. For once, though, I was on solid ground as I regularly sang in the mess during the evening get-togethers, sometimes accompanied, sometimes not.
The quintet who had been playing throughout the endless dinner looked resigned when I got to my feet, remembering to limp just in time. I crossed the room slowly, giving myself some free air to sort out what I would sing. A quick word with the musicians and more waiting for them to upload the music onto their readers and strumming a few notes to confirm that when I said ‘G’, I didn’t mean ‘C’ and we were off.
The song I chose was about a girl convinced that the boy of her dreams will fall in love with her if she sings to him. Trouble is, she’s tone-deaf. Singing deliberately off-key is harder than you’d think, but fortunately I’d had plenty of practice as this number was a current favourite with my mess-mates. I’d sung it so often, I was even able to act the part, while enjoying the surprised enjoyment on several faces at the table and hear laughter in the right places. Even the musicians clapped at the end. Norman nodded approvingly and applauded longer and louder than anyone else.
Relief swept through me as I started limping towards my seat. I’ve passed this test, then.
“Excellent, sweetheart. Now, sing ‘A Father’s Lament.’ Please.” A small smile played around his lips.
My mouth dried. I hadn’t sung that song since Jessica’s memorial service. And performing it again would burst open a crateful of memories I’d sweated blood to keep locked down tight. “It’s a lovely song, but I can’t sing it tonight as it’s in two parts.”
“You have a bunch of skilled musicians behind you. Who doubtless can accompany you perfectly well.” His pause was perfect. “Can’t you, gentlemen?”
They all but fell over themselves to assure him that of course they could oblige.
This time it took more than a few minutes to upload the music and go through the parts. The guitarist volunteered to sing the second part as he was a light tenor and the tune could be played just fine on the violin. While we’d been whispering through the parts, making sure our timing lined up, the dinner guests resumed their conversation.
But as soon as me and guitarist stepped forward, they went quiet. Norman, puffing on his cigar, was wreathed in blue smoke so I couldn’t see his face. Which was fine by me.
The slow, sliding notes of the introduction sobbed through the room. Taking a deep breath, I closed my eyes and started. The song, written as a lament, describes a father’s misery over the death of his daughter. As my voice lifted in a slow crescendo, the guitarist’s voice threaded through the grief-struck melody in aching counter-point. Technically, it wasn’t my best effort. My voice was too harsh with the effort of keeping my pain from tipping into tears, but because of the nature of the song that didn’t matter as much as you’d think. I poured my emotion into the long, wailing notes.
Memories flickered through my head of that last performance when I was serving aboard my father’s ship, singing this song to commemorate Jessica’s death with Alisha and Sonja... when Wynn was alive and watching me... when I still had a family...
And now they were beyond my reach or dead. All of them. Gone. Except for Jessica, of course.
CHAPTER THREE
I hung onto the last wavering note of the lament, then opened my eyes to thick silence. Normally when I sang, the audience would clap. They’d even applauded at Jessica’s memorial, when they weren’t supposed to. But Norman’s banqueting guests were either mopping their eyes or staring at me as if I’d turned into an Eatie. Not that I cared – they could atomise themselves.
Resuming my seat was out of the question. I could no more go on listening to Pace’s oh-so dull conversation than make Sergeant Gently smile approvingly at me. For once, Norman wasn’t an issue, busy hiccupping into a huge hanky.
“I’m really sorry, but I have a kit inspection at 0600 tomorrow. It’s been a pleasure to meet you. Goodnight.”
The quintet’s leader insisted on escorting me to the door, gabbling about my performance and how he had contacts in the business should I be interested in singing professionally. I was disappointed this chap saw fit to sweetslime around me, just like the rest, as every time I sang, people saw it as an opportunity to try and get on the shiny side of the General’s daughter.
It wasn’t until after escaping that I remembered my pretended limp. But by now, I didn’t really care what Norman’s guests thought. Stumbling towards the lifts, I was too busy trying not to howl like a trapped cat as images of Wynn... Jessica... Alisha… the boys... Wynn… broke free. Fumbling for my ident-tab with shaking fingers, I was distantly surprised that I could still breathe, still walk into the lift, still swipe my card over the reader. It hurt so much. Still. I slid down the lift wall and slumped onto the floor.
Surely, this grief wrapped around my heart like cheesewire must slice it into so many bloody chunks. Tears leaked down my cheeks. Cursing, I scrubbed them away with the back of my hand. If crying could’ve fixed anything, I’d have been newly minted months ago. The lift stopped. The doors opened and the light, dimmed to Night Mode, flickered on. I needed to get a grip because if the Warden Patrol found me whimpering in here, I’d end up with more demerits. Sucking in a deep breath, I stood up and tiptoed to our dormitory. Everyone was sleeping. I wriggled out of the dress, leaving it where it fell and crawled into bed.
*
Next morning, I surfaced with a pounding head and the knowledge that in scant twenty-five minutes we had a full kit inspection. I barely had time to roll out of my bunk and get dressed, never mind about the rest of my belongings.
First things first.
“Sorry, ladies,” I croaked, conscious of the scalding looks coming my way. And I didn’t blame them. Sleep was at a premium when days started well before sunup and regularly stretched on long after nightfall. What you didn’t need was some wet-brain snivelling in her dreams to wake you up. Twice. It was something I’d done at lot, at first and my bunk-mates had been very patient. However over the last year, it had mostly stopped and no one was impressed that I’d chosen last night to start my sleep-weeping business, again. Least of all, me.
But there wasn’t any point going down that road. I had other worries stacking up. Scrubbing last night’s paint off my face and wriggling into regulation underclothes ate up vital minutes I didn’t have. Solid pity I didn’t do this last night. I’d ended up disturbing everyone, anyhow… Oh, Flaming Mercury, here he comes!
Trying to present my gear so the dirt didn’t notice was a waste of effort. Sergeant Gently certainly thought so. The bane-faced misery glanced at everyone’s spotless kit assembled on their beds, before glaring at mine as if it had just crawled out of his bottom.
“I trust you had an enjoyable evening, Cadet.”
I fixed my gaze across the room. “No, Sarge.”
“I’m desolated to hear that. Cos while you were guzzling your steaks and knocking back vintage vino, your team-mates were working to get their kit fit for battle-readiness.” He pushed his face so close, a faint spray of saliva hit my cheek as he snapped, “Tell me, Cadet, is your gear battle-ready?”
“No, Sarge.”
“And d’you think that is acceptable, Cadet?”
Norman. The name’s Cadet Norman.
“I’m waiting, Cadet!” The snarl in his voice made me realise his anger wasn’t just show.
Not sure where he was going with this, I remained silent. No point in talking up more grief for myself as I was in it up to my neck, anyhow.
“Where’s your whiny excuses?” He assumed a falsetto, presumably mimicking me, “Please Sarge, I couldn’t get out of it. I had to go. And by the time I got back, it was already Lights Out.”
His voice was back to ear-ringing normality, “Well?”
My tight-wound apprehension morphed into weary anger. Oh, get over yourself. You don’t come close to the Cap for lethal sarcasm, as it happens. “Doesn’t matter, Sarge. Whatever the excuse, I’ve let down myself and my team-mates by producing sub-standard kit.”
“Delighted that lesson has gone home,” he sounded anything but delighted. “Six demerits for Red Group. And you’re on a charge, Cadet. Extra drill for the next two evenings – and I don’t care if you’ve got more banquets to attend!”
Muffled gasps around the room confirmed my own stunned conviction that it was a savage punishment.
“Yessarge.” Saying anything else would’ve earned me more demerits.
The rest of the inspection passed in a blur while I tried to figure a way of getting Red Group within touching distance of the other two leading groups. And couldn’t.
Once Sergeant Gently stomped out to ruin someone else’s morning, Irena sank onto her bunk. “Prodding hells, but that’s dank.”
“Sorry,” I mumbled, shovelling my kit into the storbin under my bunk.
“Don’t know what you could’ve done ʼbout it. Tried to clean your kit last night, as it happens. But he came by and stopped me. Threatened me with two demerits.” She kicked her storbin. Hard. “If I’d known then what I know now I’d have ignored the prodder and done it, anyway.”
Raquel approached. “Hey, hitting the lead in the Group Shield like this sure takes the shiny off it. Why didn’t you explain the situation, Liz? He all but begged you to.”
She trying to be funny? Cos if she is...
But her twitched gaze was clear of any mockery.
I let out the breath I’d been holding and slumped onto the bunk, feeling like something voided into the recycling system. “He wanted me to ask for some spare air so that he could yell about fairness not coming into it. That I’d still let down my team-mates no matter which way you sliced it.” I shrugged. “All that stuff.”
“But he said about you not being able to get out’ve it. So he knew.” Raquel’s face was puckered into a frown. Somehow, she’d got the notion that fairness mattered. Which it doesn’t, unless it’s a military version of fairness. Which isn’t what a civi calls fair. She needed to be put straight. It’s a painful lesson to learn the hard way.
“You gotta see it through the Sarge’s viewfinder. Having me in his training group is a bleak break. Whatever happens, the high-ups will be breathing down his neck.” I rubbed my eyes, wishing I didn’t feel so tired. “He cuts me the thinnest slice of air, word will get around that he’s a sweetslimer. Whereas he knows that the General mightn’t like it if he gives me a hard time, but Norman will respect him.”
Raquel whistled. “Gods above, that’s dank! Glad I’m not breathing your air.”
I bit my lip trying to swallow my irritation at her tactlessness.
The day didn’t improve during brekkie. Romeo slammed his tray down so hard in front of me, half his vit-drink slopped out of the mug. “What d’you do to earn us six demerits, Norman?”
“Nothing, as it happens.”
He leaned across the table, his face flushed. “You must’ve said something—”
Irena put her hand on his shoulder. “Flush it outta the airlock, why don’t you? She was prone. Sarge was going for her jugular, anyhow and she played it like a pro.” Her admiration steadied me as she continued, “Don’t reckon I could’ve been so vac’d cool if it’d been me. You wasn’t there. Ask round. The girls’ll tell you the same.”
“Don’t encourage him! It’ll take us a long light year to peel him away from the girlies once he starts his sweet-talk routine,” I said, trying to scoop the pool of vit-drink out of my brekkie bowl.
They laughed. A bit hysterically, it’s true. But still, it was laughter.
Before Romeo’s face darkened again. “What’ll we do to get our hands on the Shield, now?”
I shrugged. “Don’t think we can do it. Maybe we need to make our prime objective getting through the Officer Training—ˮ
“Prime objective! Listen to yourself! You sound like those prodding button-jabbers. I didn’t sweat seed these last nine months just to come second.” Romeo turned to Irena. “You’re with me on this, yeah?”
“Like you, I want to win so much it hurts.” Irena crammed another forkful of rubbery egg in her mouth. “But we’re not gonna do it, so regroup. We got no choice.”
Romeo jumped up. “You spitless losers! First sign of strife and you’re on your backs with your paws in the air. I’ll figure how to put us back on top. An’ when I do, I’ll let you’s know!”
Irena cursed solidly for two whole minutes after he stormed off to sit at another table.
Romeo’s tight-lipped anger didn’t abate as we stomped up and down the drill square, or during our emergency space-suiting procedure. And his snarling refusal of help during our astro-navigation lesson had me wanting to smack some sense into the zilcher.
I had my opportunity. Unarmed combat was my favourite class. The Cap had us kids trained in the basics of self-defence from the age of five and since Wynn’s death, I’d spent long hours battling the KillerKombat avatar and working my way up the BalanceJoust levels – set on practice mode, of course. Having said that, I’d reached Level Eight, which was good enough to more than hold my own with the rest of the class, even vets like Irena.
We were warming up with a free practice session and David had just joined us, released from sickbay after a fast-acting phage had cleared up his bronchitis. I was in the middle of showing him how to break his opponent’s arm. As David didn’t have the stamina to survive any prolonged physical fight, I was working out a set of moves he could use to quickly disable his enemy.
Romeo tapped me on the shoulder. “Let’s do this.” He flexed his arms.
I blinked. “You sure ʼbout this?”
“Scared, then?”
I opened my mouth to answer. And got a faceful of Romeo’s hand for my trouble. The slap wasn’t sufficient to knock me down, but hard enough to split my lip and have me staggering. Stupid— Didn’t have time to curse my wet-brained slowness.
Launching himself, Romeo slammed me onto the practice mat with sufficient force to make my eyes water.
“Please, Romeo,” I yelped, flailing around for a likely hold.
He loosened his grip. “You quitting—”
Twisting round and out from under him, I grabbed his arm and pulled it back against the shoulder joint. “David? You get the arm like this. Then if you wanted to dislocate his shoulder, you’d continue pulling it round.” I tweaked Romeo’s arm till he cursed. “But that takes time and if he’s in a slink suit, he might have servos preventing that move. Leaving you exposed. Best option is to position it like this.” I jerked his arm up, forcing Romeo onto his knees. “Then you can jump on it...” I mimed the move. “Shatters the bone and takes all the fight outta him.” Letting go of Romeo’s arm, I sprang clear of him at the same time.
He scrambled up, scowling and rubbing his shoulder. “You’re a piece of work, Norman. Making me think I’d got you beat.”
“I know.” I grinned, feeling happier than I had all day. “And when you use that move for real, just remember who saved your sorry tail.”
He pulled a sweatwipe out of his wristpac and waved it at me. “Mouth’s bleeding.”
“Oh...” Sucking my swollen lip, I dabbed at the blood trickling down my chin.
His good humour restored, Romeo sidled up to me. “Want me to kiss it better, darlin?”
“A few minutes ago, you were all set to knock her into the next galaxy. Hose it away, why don’t you?”
Mentally rolling my eyes at David’s English prudery, I clapped him on the shoulder. “It’s fine. Romeo needs his
daily fix of female rejection like you need air. Right. Your turn. Try the move on me.”
Engrossed in trying to disable me, David forgot his disapproval of Romeo while I lost myself in the practicalities of keeping him from inadvertently crippling me.
Sergeant Gently’s roar broke up our grapples. “Right! You miserable bunch of no-hopers. Let’s stop giving each other love taps that wouldn’t slow down my great-granny and get real. Norman! To me.” His snarling grin made my stomach lurch as he tossed me a knife, the regulation issue broad-bladed Kaybee. “This move is all about Plan B. Cos what is Plan A if you’re unarmed and confronted with some knife-waving scumsac, people?”
“Run away, Sarge,” we chorused.
“Thank the Gods below that something sticks in those useless lumps between your ears. Even if it’s only when to run.” Such high praise was so unusual from the Sarge, the faces surrounding us were grinning.
Not me, though. Not while waiting to be his sparring partner.
“So, Plan B…” His gaze skewered me, as he gestured in my direction. “…is because said ugly scumsac jumps you from behind, intending to slit your windpipe.” His smile broadened. “Ready to slit my windpipe, Cadet?”
“Yessarge!”
The patter of laughter was sympathetic. Most of us preferred to clean the latrines than go up against the Sarge in these bouts. He invariably chose the lacklucked bod who was currently in highest disfavour with him.
He turned his back on me as I approached. Maybe he gave it away – a slight tensing… a change in his stance… Whatever it was, I suddenly knew his move. Oh yeah! The good ol’ one, two – elbow in the solar plexus and foot hooking my ankle.
Of course, the smart thing would’ve been to go right along with it and let the Sarge knock the breath out of me and smirk at my wheezing struggles for air. In my defence, I’d mention that those six team demerits burned. If it had just hosed my chances away, I would’ve been angry, sure. But what had me grinding my teeth to powder was the pain it caused my team-mates.
