He sighed again and I noticed how tired he looked. “I cannot deny we need reform. But policymakers are working to make sure what Fraco did does not happen again. Things are changing.”
I swallowed. “Not fast enough for that little boy, though.”
“Your leaving the Crims will not make the changes happen any more quickly.” His voice had sharpened. He had lost patience.
“Neither will my staying.”
“Thayet, don’t turn in your armor tomorrow.” He reached out and covered my hand with his. I was surprised by the gesture and almost flinched back. “Take more time to think. If you leave the Crims, I fear you will regret it more than you can imagine.”
Those last words of his ring in my ears. They twang across my eardrum and then resolve into the screech of the door as it opens again. My thoughts scatter and I open my eyes.
This time, the guard has his faceplate up, revealing a toothy sneer. “Brought you a friend.” He yanks on a dirty arm. The owner of the arm stumbles forward and lands on hands and knees in the middle of the room. Greasy hanks of hair fall over bony shoulders. The prison suit is not kind to the man’s potbelly or flabby chest.
“Play nice, little pigs,” the guard says. He bangs the door shut and then, before striding off, snorts at us through the small barred opening at the top.
My new cellmate sighs and pushes back to sit on his heels. “Takes one to know one, bastard,” he says over his shoulder. Not loud enough for the guard to hear, I notice. He turns back to me. “What the hell are you looking at?”
“Apparently a pig,” I reply with a shrug. I stifle a wince at the pain the gesture causes. Damn it, T.J., stop doing that!
“Like you’re any prize worth boasting about. I’ve seen road kill more appealing than you.”
Pretending indignation, I pat the back of my shaved head. “What, you don’t like the makeover I got, courtesy of the Crims?”
He laughs and joins me on the bench. He holds out a hand and I see the black nails and a thick web of white scar tissue on the palm. “Name’s Regus,” he says. “Regus Mayhew.”
I look at him with new interest as I take his hand and squeeze with what little strength I’ve got. I’ve heard the name somewhere. “Thayet. T.J.”
“Pleased.” Regus eyes me. “Never seen a woman worked over like you. Must have done something pretty bad to piss ‘em off this much.”
I wave a dismissive hand. “Oh, just utter betrayal.”
He grunts. “Betrayal’s a pretty broad concept to the Crims. Wait–” He leans back a little, runs his eyes over me again. “Thayet Jovana Tykus?”
I nod.
Regus’ breath whistles through his teeth. “Now it makes sense. The ‘Whore of Terados’ in the flesh.”
My lips twist at the ugly epithet. The Union media pinned it on me after I appeared in a vidcast standing next to the rebel Draykell leader, Om’Fa. “Don’t ask for an autograph.”
He shakes his head and laughs.
Wanting to redirect the conversation, I ask, “What about you?”
“Smuggling. Got caught with a hundred crates of taaki liquor and two dozen Draykell refugees on the runway two minutes before we got clearance to take off.”
I cock a brow at him. “Refugees? You part of the resistance?” Was that why his name sounded familiar? The rebel leaders had kept me isolated since my own initiation into the confederacy of Draykell rabble-rousers and their human sympathizers. As the daughter of the Crimson Army’s Commander-in-Chief I had several strikes against me as an ally. They had seen my potential as a media draw, though. Thus the whole “Whore of Terados” thing. Still, I had enjoyed a few friendships since joining the resistance and had heard stories concerning some of the more famous troublemakers.
He shakes his head. “No, just paid me well to take them off world.”
I look away towards the wall across from us. I don’t want him to see my expression as I ask, “What happened to the refugees?”
“Shot on the spot. Every single one of ‘em.”
I close my eye against the brief spasm of pain in my chest. So many dead. What were two dozen more in the Draykells’ measured dance towards extinction?
“You all right?” Regus’ voice sounds soft and concerned.
I look at him. His face is drawn in tight, his eyes narrowed, as though someone’s pulled a drawstring attached to his skin. “Fine.”
“Yeah, well, what’s done is done,” he says. “’Spect they’ll shoot me too in the next day or two. Only reason they didn’t do it on the airstrip was they thought I could give ‘em a lead on the resistance. Joke’s on them, though.”
“At least you didn’t get the blue bath,” I say, glancing at his dirty, but still normal toned, skin. I sense him tense up and narrow my eyes. No blue bath, head not shaved. If they had thought he might have ties to the resistance, they would have given him a standard work over. Instead, he looks as though they stuffed him into a prison suit then threw him into the cell. I don’t even see any bruises or signs of struggle.
Regus. Regus Mayhew. The name tickles my memory. I blink my working eye several times, trying to clear my head enough to remember where I’ve heard that name. Then the image of a gleaming airship in flight, a sunset in the background, leaps to the front of my mind. Regus Mayhew is the hero in the Valiant Voyages, a collection of adventure tales about a noble smuggler, who masterminds crimes against the rich and wicked to aid the poor and oppressed. My mother used to read me Regus’ stories every night when I was a child. So this was an emissary from my father, or a spy. The use of my childhood heroes’ names, though, makes the spy scenario a little hard to believe. Some sort of test?
“They tell me my dance comes up tomorrow morning,” I say, keeping my gaze trained on the door of the cell.
Regus bends one leg and rests his arm on the knee. “Isn’t your pop some sort of bigwig?”
Now I hear the studied nonchalance in his voice, the conscious effort to seem unrefined. “Yes, but he disowned me when I left the Crims.” A catch in my throat makes me cough wetly. I hunch over and cover my mouth with one hand as the coughing becomes more violent. When I start to calm down, my hand comes away wet and slick with mucus.
Regus stares at the mess, his lips moving as though in prayer. “’Utter betrayal,’ huh?”
I wipe my hand on the far edge of the bench. Dab at the sweat on my forehead with my arm. “Anything worth doing is worth doing all the way, right?”
“That’s what I’ve heard. Old man must have been off the shelf to disown you, though.”
I give him a weary look. “Wouldn’t you be ‘off the shelf’ too if your only child decided to fight against everything you believed in?”
“Maybe. Good thing I don’t have kids. You regret it?”
I expel an impatient breath. “Regrets are for losers.”
Regus pauses. I can almost see his mind trying to latch onto another subject. Something to draw me out. “Where’d they capture you?”
Interesting tack. “They didn’t. I walked into the spaceport security office yesterday morning.”
“You what?” It is part question, part disbelieving laugh.
“I gave myself up.”
An outright guffaw this time. “What the hell for? Not to be rude or nothing, but that seems like a pretty stupid move. I mean, you’re living free and clear with the resistance and you chuck it to come back here where they beat the shit outta you before putting a lightbit in your head. You have an attack of homesickness or what?”
I feel that urge again to grit my teeth. My tongue slides between them to prevent any damage. Here’s the test. Father wants to know why I came back, unarmed and alone. Say the right thing, T.J., and you’re guaranteed a meeting. I clear my throat and paste a rueful smile on my face. “I learned some hard lessons out there with the resistance. Nothing is black and white, no side is right – or wrong.” All true. I had learned that lesson and it had broken my heart.
“Om’Fa not the hero
you thought he was?”
Tears try to squeeze from my swollen ducts. “Is anyone a hero when it comes down to it?”
“Always been this cynical?”
I snort. “Odd question coming from a roguish smuggler with a heart of gold, Regus Mayhew.” Pretend time’s over, Mr. Mayhew.
His face goes still, lips poised as if to speak. Before he gets a chance, our cell door opens again to reveal two Crims bickering through their helmets’ mouthpieces.
“It’s not my fault if the manifest got screwed up,” one guard gripes to another. Both Crims turn to look at us.
“Let’s go, Mayhew,” the second guard says, ignoring his companion. “You were supposed to go to Building A.”
Regus gives me a hard, searching look. “Good luck with your valiant voyage, T.J. I’m sure it’ll turn out all right.”
I give him a wan smile and watch him shuffle towards the exit. The guards jerk him from the cell and slam the door closed. I listen to their footsteps fade down the hall. “Go to him, Regus,” I whisper. “Make him see me.”
I spend the rest of the night in agony. Someone pushes a thin blanket through the opening in the cell door sometime after moonrise. I fold it into a pillow but it does nothing to help me breathe better or ease the terrible pains in the rest of my body. From outside I hear the snarl and screech of the beasts roaming the hills around the spaceport. Their presence comforts me, makes me think I am still out there with Om’Fa and his followers. A few hours before dawn I fall into an exhausted, though fitful, sleep.
The squeal of the door wakens me. My eye pops open and I watch the guard stride into the cell. “You know a little grease would fix those hinges right up.”
“Let’s go,” he says, ignoring my teasing.
I uncurl my screaming limbs, get to my feet, and shuffle forward. I pause outside the door to fight a wave of dizziness and nausea.
The guard pushes me. “Move!” I stumble on my fatigued legs and catch myself against the wall with the heel of my left palm. My fingers arch away to avoid contact with the white stone. The guard jerks me up and gives me a slap, a warning not to fall again. I limp before him, panting with pain.
We leave the building housing my cell and the guard grabs my upper arm. He hauls me towards an empty field away from the buildings. “Where are we going?” I ask, panic welling in my throat.
“Shut up,” he commands, giving my arm a cruel squeeze. As we draw closer to the field, I see an armed soldier and a discipline officer standing off to one side. The gunman smirks when he catches sight of us. He taps the barrel of his gun against his head then points it at me. No, no, no! “I want to speak to General Tykus,” I demand, my voice climbing with desperation. I pull back against the guard’s hold, but am too weak to even slow him down.
“Your daddy wants us to kill you,” the gunman shouts with a laugh. “He’s ashamed to have a traitor for a daughter. Now turn and face your new daddy!” He puckers his lips in a mock kiss and grins at me.
I’ve failed. The realization blankets my mind with a kind of thick stupor. I can’t believe I’ve failed. I was sure he would come, especially after sending Regus. The guard halts me a few yards from the gunman, moves aside. Shock and physical agony make me want to hunch my shoulders, draw into myself. I resist the urge and stand up straight. Don’t let these fuckers see you scared, T.J. Don’t you dare!
The discipline officer holds a tablet and reads from it in a loud voice, “Thayet Jovana Tykus, formerly Private First Class, the Governor of New Jordan has found you guilty of the following treasonous crimes: fraternization with enemies of the Helios Union; conspiracy against the government; and murder of loyal Union soldiers. The sentence is death. Die for your crimes, traitor whore.” He nods to the gunman, who then raises his firearm and takes aim. I squeeze my eye shut.
“Hold fire!”
My eye eases open to see the gunman and discipline officer standing at attention. Next to them, staring at me from beneath the brim of an officer’s cap stands Fitch Burko, a member of my father’s staff. “I am under orders to take this prisoner into my custody.”
The discipline officer’s lips tighten. “Governor Anglas already signed the execution order, sir.”
Burko turns on him. “Yes, and he will receive disciplinary action of his own for circumventing General Tykus’ directives regarding past military personnel. Unless you want to share in his punishment, I suggest you stand down.”
The discipline officer flushes a dark red and nods. “Very good, sir.”
“You’re dismissed.”
The gunman and the officer salute and head back to their command building. The guard who escorted me out to the field remains, standing to my right, one gauntleted hand raised as though to reach for me. Burko strides towards us and jerks his head at the guard. “You’re dismissed as well, solider.”
“Sir…” the guard raises his faceplate. “Perhaps you need my help escorting the prisoner to her next destination.”
Burko continues to stare at me, smirking. “Looks like you and your men have already incapacitated her. I doubt she’s able to run or fight in her condition.”
The guard hesitates for a second, then mumbles an assent and salutes before leaving.
Alone, Burko and I glare at each other. I catch sight of the officer’s pin gleaming against his red jacket. Before I left the Crims, Fitch Burko was a private on my father’s personal staff. Looks like he’s been climbing the ranks. I nod at the pin. “Congratulations on your promotion, Fitch.”
His green eyes narrow. “Thank you. Just made lieutenant six months ago. And bravo to you on your… new lifestyle choices.”
“You make it sound licentious.”
He smirks again. “Well, you’re good at screwing people, T.J.”
It’s my turn to smirk. Burko and I had a brief but intense affair when he first joined my father’s staff. I broke it off when I came to the conclusion he was using me to get in good with my father. He had not taken it well. “Now I’m in your custody, what will you do with me?”
“The General has decided to give you a few minutes of his time. Come with me.”
We walk side by side towards the spaceport headquarters. He keeps the pace slow to accommodate my limping gait and tortured respiration. I cast a pointed look at a line of ground shuttles sitting outside headquarters. Burko catches my expression and raises an eyebrow. “People convicted of treason shouldn’t expect pampering, T.J.”
“My mistake, I thought the Union was still made up of human beings. Stupid of me.” I pause to catch my breath a little. “And don’t call me T.J.”
He doesn’t answer, but I see a hardening along his jaw. We continue into headquarters. At the security checkpoint he flashes his badge at the guard and submits to a retinal scan. I follow him down the stone hallways to a conference room. Padded chairs surround a long empty table. Burko goes to a wall-comm and presses a button. “Inform the General we’re in room 15.”
A crackle of static precedes another man’s voice answering, “Will do.”
Burko leans his back on the wall. He took off his cap when we entered the building. Now he runs a hand through his short, sandy hair.
I look at the chairs with longing. My legs ache and the walk across the spaceport has left me winded and lightheaded. But I’m afraid if I sit down, I won’t have the strength to stand again when my father appears. As a compromise, I brace my hands on the table and take a little weight off my legs and feet.
“He’s missed you, you know.”
My lid feels heavy as stone as I blink at him. “Are you his confidante now?”
“It’s pretty obvious to anyone who knew him before you left, T–Thayet.”
Outside the doors I hear people coming and going. Each approach makes my stomach constrict. It’s almost time. I close my eye and take deep, open-mouthed breaths. Remember the plan, T.J. Remember why you’re doing this. No weakness.
“Well, thanks for the pep talk, Fitch.”
Burko
opens his mouth, brows lowering in a scowl when he’s stopped by the swish of the door opening. I straighten, leave wet handprints on the table’s polished surface.
General Horatio Tykus, my father, steps into the room. We stare at each other for several moments. I try to appear brave, unaffected by his appearance, but I cannot help lowering my head under the weight of his silvery gaze. “You’re dismissed, Lieutenant.”
“Yessir.” Burko leaves and I hear the chirrup of the door lock.
I peek at my father through my uninjured eye as he draws close. He’s bare headed and in uniform rather than armor. A full beard hides much of his face, but I can see new lines etched around his eyes. Did I cause those?
We stare at each other for several minutes before I open my cracked lips and say, “Thank you for Regus. He was a nice reminder of… happier times. Though I thought you would have come up with something a little more subtle.”
He smiles, his white teeth gleaming from the forest of his beard. “I wanted to check on you.”
“You’ve got eyes.”
He sobers at once. “Yes, I do.” He runs them up and down my body. The prison suit conceals most of my injuries, but I know he can determine their extent by the way I’m standing. “Damn you, Thayet,” he breathes. “Why did you come back here?”
I incline my head to look at him full in the face. I had expected anger, disgust, even a cold indifference, but all I see in his pale eyes is sadness.
“All this time I could imagine you alive and living in some run down hovel with a gaggle of babies at your feet. Could dismiss all those reports of your defection – lie to myself.” He sighs and I feel the resignation in it settle on my shoulders. “Now you force me to see you like this.” He waves a hand towards my battered body.
“It’s nice to know you’ve thought about me.” I offer him a quick smile, but he doesn’t seem amused.
“Tell me why you’re here?”
I’ve come to kill you. The confession wants to slip from my mouth but I harden my lips to keep it back. Instead I say, “I wanted to talk to you.”
“About?”
Like a coward, I avoid his eyes and focus on the tiled floor beneath his red boots. “Coming home.”
Luna Station Quarterly - Issue 018 Page 2