The Cruel Stars

by Christopher Nuttall

“This is my ship,” Abigail snapped back. “I am in command. Not some ... numbnut from Earth who doesn't understand how to handle a freighter crew. We’re not soldiers, you know.”

  “But you’re still going into a warzone,” Alan pointed out. “You knew the ship might be attacked.”

  “I knew that,” Abigail said. “But that doesn't make it any easier.”

  She glared at him. “Did you kill your wife because you were used to losing people?”

  Alan clenched his fists. “No,” he said. “I ...

  “Did you not care about the dead?” Abigail pressed. “Or ... a young woman is dead!”

  “I know,” Alan shouted. He fought to control his growing anger. “I know she’s dead. And her death is a tragedy and nothing I can do will bring her back and ... I can't bring her back.”

  He sagged, unclenching his fists. “It won’t get any easier,” he said. “You’ll just get better at handling it.”

  Or you can hand the ship over to someone else, he added, silently. If the navy lets you go ...

  “Hah,” Abigail said. She laughed, humourlessly. “We’re a ship of the damned, aren't we?”

  “No,” Alan said.

  “You murdered your wife,” Abigail said. “And, for some strange reason, you were allowed to live until they found a use for you. What shitty people you groundpounders are, to be sure.”

  She laughed, again. “What did your ugly friend do?”

  Alan gaped at her, then started to laugh himself. Bennett? She thought Bennett was a convict too? His laugh turned into hysterical giggles as he realised that they’d never actually told her that Bennett was his watchdog. God only knew what she’d been thinking. A serious criminal would have been executed - or at least exiled - but that still left plenty of room for all sorts of misbehaviour. For all she knew, Bennett had murdered his wife too.

  “He didn't do anything,” Alan said. It was hard, so hard, to keep from breaking into another fit of giggles. “He’s there to make sure I don’t do anything!”

  “Oh,” Abigail said. She looked at him, then chuckled. “That must be annoying.”

  “You have no idea,” Alan said. He didn't really blame the Royal Navy for wanting to keep an eye on him. But Bennett’s constant presence was more than a little irritating, even if they had managed to form a working relationship. “He does have his uses.”

  “I’m glad to hear it,” Abigail said. “But ...”

  She looked down, grimly. “But ... all those ships were destroyed. What happens now?”

  “I don’t know,” Alan said. He felt numb. If the aliens could wipe out twelve fleet carriers so casually, what was to keep them from smashing the rest of the Royal Navy? And every other navy? The war might be over by the end of the month. “I just ... don’t know.”

  “And we won’t know until we get back home,” Abigail said. She shifted until they were facing each other, their legs almost touching. “All we can do is pray.”

  She leaned forward. Alan wasn't sure, afterwards, which of them actually kissed the other first. He was surprised at himself, surprised at her too. Their lips met, pressing together in a manner that had nothing to do with love and affection, but an urge to do something - anything - to remind them that they were still human. He drew back, just for a second, as his heart started to pound. Her eyes were hard, yet desperate. And then she kissed him again.

  His body took over, his hands pulling her upright and scrabbling with her shipsuit. It had been too long, far too long, since he'd been with a woman. He couldn't keep himself from reaching up to stroke her breasts, feeling her hard nipples under his fingers. Her hands roamed his body too, unbuckling his suit and pushing his trousers down. She pushed him against the bulkhead, kissing him time and time again as he entered her ...

  It crossed his mind, as he started to move inside her, that it was a mistake. They shouldn't be having sex, not when they were meant to work together. But it had been so long ... he heard her gasping, deep in her throat, as he fucked her harder and harder. She moved too, her hands gripping his buttocks and encouraging him to move faster. He wasn't sure which of them was in charge. Perhaps they were just being driven by their hormones, by the need to forget - just for a while - the death and destruction.

  He came, hard. His legs buckled. And yet ... part of him felt as though he’d betrayed his wife. God knew he’d had sexual partners before getting married, but God also knew he’d never had anyone else since the day he’d sworn himself to her. His fellow pilots had teased him for not taking advantage of shore leave, yet ... he’d thought the marriage meant something. And there had been no women after Judith’s death ...

  I’m sorry, he thought, although he wasn't sure if he was sorry. Judith had cheated on him, after all. And she hadn't even had the decency to tell him. I ...

  And then he met Abigail’s eyes and knew they’d made a terrible mistake.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Fuck, Abigail thought.

  She was dazed, her mind unable to form a coherent thought as he slid out of her. And yet ... she knew, with a sickening certainty, what she’d done. She’d had sex with Alan. She wanted to blame it on the wine, but she knew all too well that she hadn’t drunk anything like enough to impair her judgment that much. And he hadn't forced her either. She’d made a very poor decision, based on the urge to do something - anything - that distracted her from the deaths.

  Fuck, she thought, again.

  Abigail pulled back, staring at him. He was half-dressed, his cock hanging out of his trousers ... she would have laughed, if the situation wasn't so serious. He’d fucked her so hard that ... she fought down the urge to giggle helplessly. He’d made love like a man who’d just got out of prison. But that was exactly what he had done. Her eyes trailed over his body, unsure where to look. He was more muscular than she’d expected, for a groundpounder who’d been trapped in a cell for five years. It had been a long time for her too.

  Abigail bit her lip, forcing herself to concentrate. She was an adult, old enough to have grown children of her own. And she was part of a group-marriage that understood that - sometimes - a partner would want to go elsewhere for sex. None of her husbands and wives would blame her for having sex, although they might have quite a bit to say about the person she’d had sex with. Alan had murdered his wife. That alone would be enough to make him a pariah in the belt, if he wasn't executed on the spot. No one would blame his wife’s family for killing him if the law refused to do the job.

  She looked down at herself. Her shipsuit trousers were around her ankles, crumpled on the deck; her shirt was open, revealing her breasts. She was too much a Belter to be embarrassed by casual nudity, too old a player to feel vulnerable. Hell, Alan was at least five years younger than her, perhaps more. His file hadn't been clear on that either. Would he have a fit when he realised she was in her late forties? Or would he care, after spending so long in jail?

  “Fuck,” she said, out loud.

  It had been quick, but good. She hadn't felt quite so much determination to lose herself in raw sensation since she’d become a married woman. And yet, she knew it would lead to complications. Belters wouldn't object to a quick tryst, but groundpounders took matters much more seriously. Alan was a physical adult - he had children, for crying out loud - but she knew he might not be emotionally mature. A man who could kill his wife in a fit of rage certainly wasn't that mature.

  It might be different for him, of course, Abigail reflected. He pledged himself to a single woman.

  “Fuck,” Alan echoed.

  Abigail sighed and reached for her trousers, pulling them up as quickly as she could. She’d have to shower, of course ... she wondered, inanely, what she was supposed to do. She kicked herself, mentally. There weren't many options on the ship, if she’d wanted to find a partner for the night, but she could have just used a VR tape. Or even ... she sighed. Alan had killed his wife. It wasn't something she was inclined to forgive. She buttoned up her shirt, resisting the urge to watch as Alan
fixed his clothes. It felt better, somehow, to be covered. And yet, it was not a pleasant sensation.

  “Abigail,” Alan said. “I ...”

  Abigail did not want to have that talk, not now. “Get out,” she said. He needed a shower too, but ... she wanted to be alone. She’d done something stupid. “Now.”

  Alan opened his mouth, then turned and opened the hatch. Abigail allowed herself a sigh of relief as he stepped through, the hatch hissing closed behind him. If they were lucky, no one would see him before he’d managed to shower and change. No one would say anything, out loud, but there would be whispered rumours. God alone knew where they’d lead.

  Fuck, she thought, once again.

  She checked the status display, then started to undo the shipsuit. Her breasts were covered with faint marks, testament to their brief passion. She touched one of the bruises lightly and shook her head. Given how hard she’d squeezed his buttocks, she was fairly sure he was bruised too. His skin was lighter. It was quite possible someone would see the marks and jump to all sorts of conclusions. She wondered, with a flicker of grim amusement, just what they’d say.

  The two glasses stood on the table, mocking her. She eyed them for a long moment, then picked the glasses up and carried them into the washroom. She couldn't blame the alcohol, any more than she could blame Alan himself. And yet, she wanted to blame him. All of a sudden, she thought she understood how he felt. If he blamed his wife for cheating on him - if he considered that sufficient reason to kill her - he could avoid the guilt. The delusion kept him from having to face what he’d done.

  He was inside me, she thought, as she turned on the shower and stepped into the water. And I felt ... what?

  She snorted in annoyance. The hell of it was that she had enjoyed herself. It had been brief, but intense. She was certainly old enough to make her own decisions. And most of her crew were mature enough to understand that she had desires too. Anson and Poddy were the only ones who would be horrified at the thought of their aged mother having sex ...

  Reaching for a sponge, she scrubbed herself down. It was hardly the first time she’d had a one-night stand, although she’d always been fairly sure she wouldn't have to see her partner again afterwards. But now ... she wasn't sure how she felt. Alan had done things she couldn't forgive. And yet, she’d been so desperate for human touch that she’d kissed him.

  You are responsible for what you do, she reminded herself, sharply. Her parents and uncles had said the same thing, when she’d been younger. And you have to deal with the consequences.

  She turned off the water and stepped out of the shower. She’d get dressed, then go to the bridge. They hadn't seen any sign of the enemy, but that didn't mean that the convoy was safe. She was all too aware that the aliens wouldn’t need to strain their drives if they wanted to catch up with the fleeing freighters, assuming the aliens had a rough idea where to start looking. The convoy didn't even have a nominated CO to take command, if the aliens did show themselves. A military CO would probably have assumed overall command by now.

  Perhaps we take our independence a little too far, she thought, as she pulled on her underwear and reached for a fresh shipsuit. There’s a war on now.

  Tying her hair back, she studied herself in the mirror. She looked tired, but there was no visible sign she’d had sex. That was something, at least. No one would judge her for having a one-night stand when they were docked at an asteroid station, but they were in the middle of a warzone. Someone would probably insist she was neglecting her sworn duty. Perhaps she was. Her lips twitched into a humourless smile. If the aliens had shown up when they were fucking ...

  Don’t delude yourself, she told herself, sharply. One of the reasons she let herself go - one she wouldn't acknowledge outside the privacy of her head - was the grim awareness that they could die at any time. If the aliens show up, we’re dead.

  She took one last look in the mirror, then strode out of the cabin. She had work to do. And if Alan couldn’t be professional about it ...?

  Fuck him, she thought. And not literally, this time.

  ***

  Alan felt ... he wasn't sure how he felt.

  He forced himself to walk down the corridor, praying with a fervour he hadn't felt in years that no one noticed him until he was safely in the cabin. He hadn't prayed like that since the time his best friend had brought illicit cigarettes into school, even though he’d known the headmaster was on the warpath. Being caught would mean real trouble ... he might even have been expelled, although it hadn't been his idea. Alan’s father wouldn't have taken that lightly. God knew he’d been furious when Alan really had been transferred to a borstal ...

  The hatch opened as soon as he keyed the switch. Bennett was lying on his bed, reading a datapad. Alan cringed, inwardly. Some men would slap him on the back and congratulate him for scoring, but he doubted Bennett would do anything of the sort. He was Alan’s watchdog, not his friend or comrade. And Alan was ruefully aware that the truth was written all over his face. He probably smelled of sex ...

  He pushed that thought out of his head as hard as he could, then headed straight into the shower. Bennett didn't say a word, although Alan could feel Bennett’s gaze burning into his back. The younger man was a soldier, after all. He was no stranger to finding female companionship for the night, then walking away in the morning. If half the stories about squaddies on leave were true, they made starfighter pilots look positively genteel.

  All those stories about prison weren't true either, he reminded himself, as he stripped off his shipsuit. Colchester wasn't bad ...

  Alan turned on the water, scrubbing himself down as quickly as he could. Water might not be rationed any longer, but he was still meant to set a good example. Besides, if the aliens jumped them, he’d have to run to his starfighter. There was no point manning the CIC when an extra starfighter might make the difference between survival and death. He sighed, shaking his head in dismay. There was a good chance that an extra starfighter would only mean one more craft blasted out of space during the battle.

  Shit, he thought.

  He wasn't entirely sure what had happened. No, he knew what had happened, but he didn't know why. He wasn't even sure which of them had made the first move. God knew that hadn't happened before, even when he’d lost his virginity. It was funny to remember, now, the handful of times he’d managed to sneak out of the borstal with the other lads and go drinking and skirt-chasing in the nearest town. In hindsight, he wondered if they’d been winked at by the teachers. God knew the police could have rounded them up if they’d caused real trouble. He had no idea what would have happened then - teenage delinquents were normally sent to the borstals - but he doubted it would have been pleasant. Perhaps they would have been treated as adults and marched off to jail.

  Good thing we weren't officially caught, he told himself. I might never have had a chance to go to the stars.

  He groaned as he dragged his thoughts back to the present. His mind was a whirlwind of complicated emotions, blurring together so rapidly that he couldn't get a grip on them. He wanted to go back to her cabin and have sex with her again, he wanted to run as far from her as he could, he wanted ... he wasn't sure what he wanted. He’d been faithful to Judith while they’d been married, then involuntarily celibate during his incarceration. He cursed himself, savagely, for thinking with his smaller head. This was going to make his life harder ...

  Shutting off the water, he towelled himself down. He and Abigail had had a complicated relationship even before the battle. She’d gotten him drunk and tricked him into telling her the truth ... he shook his head in amused disbelief. Abigail was not like any other woman he’d met, for sure. But then, if half the tales about the asteroid settlements were true, she was only a little eccentric. He reminded himself, sharply, not to take the stories too seriously. It wasn't as if the stories about prison had been accurate either.

  That’s because you watched too many chicks-in-prison movies when you were younger, he repri
manded himself. And, like most pornographic shit, it bears as much resemblance to reality as a government white paper.

  He stepped out of the washroom, completely naked. Naval service - and then prison - had erased what little modesty he’d felt, once upon a time. God knew the borstal hadn't encouraged modesty either. Had there actually been a time, in his life, when he’d enjoyed true privacy? He couldn't think of one, after his transfer to the borstal. Privacy was a privilege, the headmaster had said, not a right. And it wasn't one extended to teenage boys who’d exhausted society’s good will.

  Bennett looked up. “I hope it wasn't Maddy.”

  Alan felt himself flush. “No,” he said, stiffly. “It wasn't.”

  “Good,” Bennett said. He sounded strikingly disinterested. “Are you going to tell me all about it or do I have to drag the truth out of you?”

  Alan glared at him. “How old do you think I am?”

  “Your file says you’re forty-one,” Bennett said. “Personally, I would have put you at ten or eleven.”