by Tom Kratman
With the terminal building rising next to his ship, Chapayev laughed at himself. If I wasn't afraid in Santander, why am I so afraid now?
* * *
Until he'd heard Chapayev's local accent, the taxi driver had been inclined to cheat the young officer. Once he'd heard it, and learned a little of the man's background, it had been hard to get the driver to take even an honest fare.
"I served the motherland, too, sir," the driver had insisted.
"Then take the money as a gift for your family," Chapayev had answered.
Once through the stone-framed doors to the old Tsarist building, converted to apartments, Chapayev was surprised to discover that the elevators actually worked. Hmmm, he'd thought, I wonder if the reds are back.
The answer to that question could wait. The doors opened and Chapayev walked as quietly as the bundles in his arms would let him. Reaching the door to his and his wife's apartment, he carefully placed his burden down without making a sound. Then he reached into his pocket for the keys. Everything was more difficult because of his bandaged shoulder.
It wasn't the sore shoulder, though, that caused Chapayev's hand to tremble, the key poised just outside the tumbler. It was—
I am afraid. It's been two years. What if . . .
He forced himself to insert the key and slowly to turn it. He tried to keep it quiet. Despite his best efforts the massive but poor quality lock clicked loudly, once, and then again, louder still, as the bolt retracted. Chapayev pushed the door open slightly. It made a creaking sound.
"Darling, is that you?" Veronica's voice made Chapayev's heart leap. He pushed open the door the rest of the way, then turned to drag in the gifts.
As he straightened from moving the bundles into the apartment he looked up and saw his wife standing in a doorway wearing nothing but a shocked expression. "Victor. I didn't know to expect you."
Chapayev looked from Veronica's face down to where a slight bulge told of an early stage of pregnancy. His eyes grew wide with unwelcome understanding. He looked around the cramped apartment for something, anything, to look at other than the bulge in his wife's belly. His eyes stopped on the picture of a man, his own age but somehow soft looking.
Walking over to the picture, Victor picked it up. "Darling?" he asked, holding the picture where Veronica must see it.
Recovering a portion of her composure, she answered, "Well, what did you expect? You left me here alone for months and years on end with nothing to do."
"I sent you every grivna I made. I waited for you."
"And so? The more fool you for waiting. The money you sent? A small enough price to pay for the silly, silly love letters I had to write to keep you happy, off with your colonel and your wars." She walked forward, taking the picture away from Chapayev and putting it back in its place of honor. "Leonid here is just the latest. He manages a Columbian ice cream parlor and makes more than you ever did. . . . And spends it on me, too."
" 'Just the latest,' " Chapayev echoed.
"Yes. Just the latest. How do you imagine I kept my job and our apartment here. While you were off playing cowboy with your stupid soldiers, I've had a very fine time, I don't mind telling you. I've screwed half of the city by now. Sometimes, for fun, I even get paid for it. Ask anyone important in Saint Nicholasburg where to go for the very best. He'll say 'Veronica Chapayeva. Her husband's off at the wars and she misses him so badly she'll make do with anyone.' Oh, yes, my very dearest. While you were on hands and knees in the mountains I've been on hands and knees—sometimes just knees—right here."
"Slut!"
"So? And what are you? Just a waste of a soldier nobody has any use for anymore, least of all me." Veronica reached for a robe and pulled it on. "So leave me now. I don't need your money anymore. And I never needed you." She went to where the bundles lay, pitiful offerings, and proceeded to throw them back out into the hall. In doing so, she turned her back on Chapayev.
* * *
Victor saw himself reach under his coat for the knife he had been advised to carry while walking through the city's no longer safe streets. More silently even than he had crept to his wife's door, he crept up behind her now. Like an automaton, with no control over his own actions, his left hand reached for her long, midnight hair and grasped it.
"What do you think you are doing, you cretin?".
Chapayev didn't answer. He just lifted Veronica by her hair and moved the knife to the left side of her neck. She froze as she felt the icy touch.
"Victor, don't?" she pleaded softly.
"Bitch!" he whispered into her ear. Then he drew the knife across her white throat in one smooth movement. Blood, bright and red, spurted from Veronica's throat to splash the wooden floor. Chapayev dropped her body as soon as he felt her go limp. He gathered his bundles, closed the door, and left.
* * *
In the real world, Victor found himself still standing in the middle of the living room. Veronica Chapayeva still knelt by his pile of packages, tossing them one by one into the outside hall. He thought about killing her, and decided she wasn't worth dirtying his hands over. Besides, my shoulder is still such a mess I'd probably make a hash of the job. He gathered the shreds of his dignity around himself and walked past her and through the door. Before he turned his back on the woman for the last time, Chapayev faced her.
In a voice colder than any Volgan winter, he said, "Veronica, I probably won't be able to stop this month's pay from reaching your account. Consider it a divorce settlement. I also will not go through the trouble of staying here for a divorce. You can do what you like about that. I don't care. Maybe I should hate you. But then, you can't help being what you are . . . and what you are not. I won't wish you well. Good-bye."
Victor turned and left the bundles where they lay, scattered between apartment, threshold, and corridor. He walked down the stairs and out of Veronica Chapayeva's life without a backward glance. He didn't trust himself to look at her again.
It wasn't until he was in the relative solitude and safety of a taxi that the young Volgan pulled his coat over his head and, as quietly as possible, began to weep.
UEPF Spirit of Peace, Solar System
Richard was being very talkative. Seated at her own mess with the ship's captain, Marguerite suppressed a smile. Watching Richard trying—painfully trying—to keep his mouth moving and his eyes off of Esmeralda had become more than amusing.
Except that—Dammit!—I've come to care for the both of them. But he's a Class One and she's just a peasant girl I rescued, barely rescued, from slavery. Where do they have a future together in our world? Not even in the computer generated pulp romances they print for the lower classes. Not even on the public television shows.
And anyway, while his face shouts that he's in love, hers is much harder to read. Our class nearly killed the poor thing. I doubt she has much room for love for us. I foresee pain in Richard's future, much pain.
Should I try to help? Hell, no. I'm no kind of matchmaker. I know not the first little thing about romantic love, never had any room for it, what with being at the beck and call of whatever Class One wanted me bent over a desk or down on my knees.
She suppressed a bitter thought. I wonder what life might have been like if one of them had ever looked at me the way Richard looks at Esmeralda . . .
She couldn't help sighing at dreams she'd never really been allowed to have.
"High Admiral?" Richard enquired at the sigh.
"Nothing, Captain," Marguerite answered. Well, why not give them the chance, if only for a bit, to have some of what I never did?
Wallenstein pushed the plate away from her and stood. Richard began to follow until she gestured him back to his seat.
"I've got a little work to do," she lied. "You finish your dinner, Captain. Esmeralda, please see to the Captain's needs."
"Yes, High Admiral," the serving girl said, with a curtsey.
* * *
Immediately as the door whooshed shut behind Wallenstein, Richard shut u
p, turned his reddening face down towards the plate, and commenced eating mechanically.
I can talk with her in public, on the bridge, he fumed. Why can't I speak with her in private?
The silence went on for several awkward minutes before Esmeralda asked, "Would you care for some more wine, Captain?"
Richard, in mid chew and not expecting the question, choked . . . literally. He began to choke so badly, in fact, that Esmeralda had to put down the carafe she'd picked up and rush to his side to pound on his back.
His choking ended, but not the sense of embarrasment that made him think, Why couldn't I have just died? Muttering something unintelligible, Richard, Earl of Care, stood and left the Admiral's mess for his own quarters.
Quarters One, Gutierrez Caserne, Ciudad Cervantes, Balboa, Terra Nova
None of the planet's three moons were up. The land was illuminated only by the streetlights, whatever light escaped through windows, and the occasional passing motor vehicle. Power for the former there was in plenty, from the half dozen solar power stations that now dotted the nation's northern shore, their greenhouse complexes connected to the mountain top chimneys by sturdy, half buried concrete tunnels. Even at night, with the sun down, heat differential let them continue to produce power.
The softly cooing antaniae loved the moonless nights, for those were the vile creatures' best chance to find unguarded prey. Legate Pigna could hear them calling outside, mnnbt . . . mnnbt . . . mnnbt. He wasn't worried about them, however, he'd already checked the doors and window screens to ensure that the children were safe inside, and the antaniae out. Now he sat, portable computer on his lap, continuing his planning.
Every now and again the magnitude and the dangers of the project Legate Pigna had undertaken would get to him and he would being to fret, even to choke up. Three things kept him at his task. One was the burning memory of a wad of paper thrown in his face as if he were an unruly school boy. In itself, perhaps this should not have rankled quite so much as it did. After all, the Legion was a rough service, and harsh. He'd chewed out subordinates before, if never quite so viciously as Carrera had inflicted a mass chewing upon his subordinates.
Sitting in his office at his home, sipping a higher end rum, Pigna thought, But I was one of the bastard's most loyal supporters. I deserved better. I deserved, at a minimum, not to be entrapped with that fucking flypaper report. And he should know better than to wound a man in his pride. If he doesn't, he's not fit to command.
Deep down, the legate knew that was rationalization. Wounds heal, and his had long since, except when he ripped off the scab to open the wound again. He did that because . . .
Even if I wanted to, I couldn't pull out now. They've got me on video and I have no doubt that that video would go to Fernandez the day, the hour, maybe the second I try to back out. Carrera might forgive me. Fernandez would never give him the chance. I, my family, we'd all disappear.
So much for fear, and so much for honor, or at least the avenging of dishonor. But what ultimately kept Pigna at his task was . . .
And, then too, with the corps commanders, Carrera, his personal staff, and Parilla gone, why shouldn't I become the new commander? I will be first among equals. I'll have the gratitude of the old families. And if I can do that, why not president myself, someday? Why shouldn't I watch out for my own interest?
Chapter Twenty-one
Responsibility and authority will equal out in the long run. The society that robs the future will have no future. The descendents of the man who places family over society will find no society to shelter them.
The trick, then, is to limit power to those who can, in the aggregate, be expected to use it responsibly. As we have seen, kings and tyrants are, at best, fifty-fifty; elites, oligarchs, and aristocrats are not a whit better; and even popular democracies have no great track record of responsible voting and actions, over the long term.
Geniuses may vote irresponsibly while morons vote wisely, wisdom being more a matter of instinct and experience than raw, native intelligence. Education not only doesn't guarantee responsible exercise of political power, if anything it tends toward the opposite, for the educated—who are too often also the arrogant—fool themselves into thinking they are voting the issues, after sober reflection, when in fact they just vote their emotions and gut instincts. Whatever the airs they may put on, they are, like the rest of mankind, not rational so much as rationalizing.
Just as, in the words of Voltaire, "A rational army would run away," so the act of responsible voting requires at some level an irrational mindset—to vote for the good of the whole over the good of the self—or one that, if really rational, thinks in the long term and understands long term costs and benefits.
—Jorge y Marqueli Mendoza,
Historia y Filosofia Moral,
Legionary Press, Balboa,
Terra Nova, Copyright AC 468
Anno Condita 472 Officers' Mess, Fort Cameron, Balboa, Terra Nova
An untouched plate of chorley bread, yellow and smelling buttery, sat on the table in front of Chapayev. Besides the bread was some greenish dip with a dead fly next to the shallow bowl.
Chapayev was in mufti, and unshaven for the past several days. Worse, he had the appearance of a man who had been drinking pretty heavily for all those days. Perhaps worse still, he looked like he didn't care.
Samsonov took one look and thought, I was afraid of this. On the other hand, I was also afraid he'd bring the little tramp back here and she'd be fucking my officers—just like she did back in Volga—and upsetting my mess.
The legate took a deep breath, exhaled, and walked to sit at the table where Chapayev sat alone, a half empty glass and a clear bottle directly in front of him, between the table's edge and the bread.
"Victor, what are you doing back so soon?" Samsonov asked.
"It didn't work out, sir," answered Chapayev in a voice totally devoid of emotion.
Samsonov didn't want to ask for details. He could guess at these well enough, anyway. Instead, he just said, "Well, these things happen. I'm sorry, Victor, for what it's worth."
"Yes, sir. So am I. Nothing to be done about it." A corpse would have shown more feeling than the Volgan tribune did. "So . . . I had nothing else to do. After finishing up the interviews and the shopping, I came back here."
"Well, I can't put you back on duty now. You're still convalescing." And now you have two things to heal from, don't you, son? Too much of a burden to let you bear while still doing your job? Too dangerous to leave you alone to mope? Can't make a decision like this sober, and it's too early to for me to join you in a drink.
Samsonov continued, "Tell you what, Victor. You look like the very devil. Go to your quarters and sleep a while. Consider that an order. I'll pick you up at eighteen hundred for dinner. There's a restaurant down town I've been meaning to try. Then we'll get stone blind, paralytic, ossified drunk. Tomorrow I'll decide whether you should resume your duties or finish your leave . . . or maybe something else. We'll see."
* * *
Chapayev said barely a word as he ground his way mechanically through his food. Only his glass of vodka held any real interest for him, a glass Samsonov kept constantly refilled from a bottle left at the table by the waiter.
On his fourth large glass, and plainly feeling it, Victor blurted out "She was pregnant when I got there. Several months."
Samsonov, who knew Chapayev's schedule for the last two years as well as Chapayev did himself, simply said, "Oh. I see."
"No, sir, it was much worse than that." Then Chapayev told his commander all the vile things Veronica had said to him in the Saint Nicholasburg apartment the week before. Tears welled in the tribune's eyes.
"Victor . . . there is nothing I can say to you that will make it any better . . . except, maybe, that these things pass . . . the pain, I mean. You are not the first; you will not be the last. And for whatever it is worth to you . . . she's lost more than you have." The fucking bitch, Samsonov added silently. I should
offer a bounty for the cunt's life to the next group I send home on leave.
Pride was stung, too. "What can I tell my company? All this time I've been telling them of my 'peerless' Veronica; the light of my life. How can I face them now? They'll think I'm a fool."
Samsonov sighed. "My friend, every man is a fool sometimes. Especially concerning women. And it wasn't exactly your fault. The regiment called you; you had to go. I'd wager you are not the only one; even in your company. You were just unfortunate . . . or maybe fortunate . . . to have found out."
Samsonov was silent for a moment. "But I do see your problem. Stay with the regiment and risk being laughed at behind your back, or go back to Volga . . ."
"There is nothing left for me there, sir. It's a place where foreigners speak the same language you do, nothing more."
"Yes. Well, I only mentioned it as an option. Or, maybe . . . ?"
Again Samsonov grew quiet, thinking. After a few moments he said, "Victor, I have a requirement to provide several officers, six initially, to become a sort of cadre for 'second formations' at the military schools. I don't know any of the details. Duque Carrera already thinks well of you. How about if I call him tomorrow to nominate you for one of those positions?"
"You mean I have to leave the regiment?" Chapayev looked, if possible, even more crushed.
"No, no, I don't think so. I had the impression you would still be part of the regiment, but on detached duty for some years. We have no combat action in the offing, just helping train the legions here. This might be more challenging work. You would, I imagine, be working with boys for the most part."
"Veronica always said she wanted children," Chapayev said, his voice dripping with half drunken bitterness. "I actually did, but it was 'never the right time.' Very well, sir, call Carrera." The tribune shrugged, hopelessly. "After all, as low as my life has fallen, what have I got to lose?"