Forever After (Post Apocalyptic Romance Boxed Set)

by Rose Francis

  Christine tossed. “You up?” she asked.

  “Yeah.” Ilsa didn't like the apprehensive note in Christine's voice.

  “We can't stay here,” she said.

  “We owe a debt,” Ilsa reminded her.

  “Do you think Coronetto will ever consider it paid?” she asked. Ilsa didn't have a ready reply, and wasn't given the opportunity to ponder it. There was a knock at their door.

  Ilsa answered it. The scrawny crewmember, who introduced himself as Doates, stood outside their door. “Potts requested I get you—without informing the captain,” he said.

  She looked nervously to Christine, and Doates realized how what he’d said sounded. “No, nothing like that, miss. You didn't show fer work this morning,” he said. “And Potts is moving awful slow. He could use the help in the kitchen.”

  “Oh,” she said. “I didn't think he'd be there.”

  “He figured on it; it's why he sent me.” She went with Doates. She crossed her arms and began to shiver. “You'll be okay,” Doates said. “Potts has a temper on him. But he wouldn't dare harm another hair on you. He'd be better off putting his head in the oven for what the captain'd do for him.” They arrived outside the kitchen. “But if you want, I can wait outside the kitchen. You'd need only holler.”

  One glance inside the kitchen told her she wasn't going to need anyone's help. Potts could barely keep himself from falling over, and even that required both of his hands steadied against the countertop. “I think I'll be okay,” she said.

  As soon as he noticed her, Potts slid a pancake across the counter to her. It was drizzled with a dark brawn sauce. “I cooked it,” he said. “I had a little bar of chocolate secreted away. Think of it as an apology—not that there's an apology adequate to what I did.” He couldn't meet her eyes. “I'm used to men. A man who done what you did...” he grimaced. “Fighting like we do to survive, it’s easier than it should be to lose sight of the fact that we aren’t animals.”

  He wanted her to accept his apology and forgive him. His eyes were moist, and she wanted to. But something inside her continued to rage at the man who endangered her child to hurt her.

  He seemed to understand that. “I don't expect your forgiveness,” he said softly. “Nor do I deserve it. Though I want to try to earn it.” He nudged the plate towards her.

  She wasn't sure she trusted it. But then the smell of it hit, and her concern folded against a craving she hadn't known she had.

  “The rest of the crew is just getting dry flapjacks.” He stepped out of her way so she could see the griddle and mixed batter, then put his finger to his lips. “Don't tell. I... the captain's right. I screwed them, not doing salvage like I should. Them I got to make things up with, too.”

  “What can I do to help?” she asked.

  A little smile crossed his lips. “You can eat up. They're still warm, if not fresh off the burner. Then I'll put you to work crushing citrus tablets into water; we'll see if we can't make a pleasant tasting orangeade to wash the cakes down.”

  She took a demure bite from the pancake. It was the best thing she'd eaten in months. Potts usually seemed like such a slapdash cook, but beneath the rough exterior, he had some real skill with a whisk. “It's really good,” she said.

  He smiled, though there was a sadness in it. “In about any other circumstances, the captain would whip me again for extravagance,” he said. “But I, I found some eggs and milk in the cold storage that needed to get used before they went bad. And brutal though he can be, he's the kind of man who gives you enough rope—either to swing from, or to climb your way back up when you fall.”

  Ilsa finished eating her cake and slid the plate away. “Where are the tablets?” she asked.

  “Down to the stores,” he said.

  “With the cannisters and supplies?”

  “They ain't strictly a foodstuff, so they're kept there with medicines.”

  She found the man who had twice now played doctor for her and Christine. “Don't think I ever gave my name,” he said. “Emilio Azuretz.”

  “Ilsa,” she said.

  “What can I help you with, Ilsa?” he asked.

  “Citrus tablets.”

  “Touch of scurvy?” he asked with a chuckle. “I assume Potts is mixing up a batch of his fucking awful orangeade. If it wasn't good for keeping the men from lethargy,” he turned to rifle in a drawer, “I’d ban it. Then again, if nobody drinks the stuff, then it won't do its job. That's why,” he opened another drawer, “the last time we were in town, I procured a little sweetener.”

  “Sweetener?”

  “It's a powdered sugar-substitute. Not quite as good as the real stuff, but,” he counted out a citrus tablet for each person onboard, “it will make the orangeade a hell of a lot more palatable.”

  Ilsa carried the supplies back to the kitchen. Doates was waiting for her outside the cabin. “Captain wanted to see you,” he said.

  “Not until after breakfast,” Potts added.

  “Right,” he said. “With his breakfast. He wanted you to bring it to him so's you two could have a talk.”

  She crushed up the citrus tablets and mixed them with the sugar substitute and water. She poured the orangeade into plastic cups and picked up a tray. Doates picked up two, and didn't say anything, just followed her out of the room.

  He trailed behind, largely because he had overestimated how easy it would be to balance both trays—in particular the orangeade.

  Ilsa opened the door into the captain's apartment. He was seated behind a desk, and she set his tray down in front of him. For the first time in weeks, she felt at home; serving was a task she finally had some experience with doing well. He nodded at the delicate curtsey she gave before she set the tray before him.

  Doates set one of his trays on the opposite end of the desk from Coronetto, and then left the room. The captain gestured to an empty seat near the abandoned tray. She sat down in front of it.

  He took a bite of the pancake and rolled the treat over his tongue. “The old man really does have a talent in a kitchen,” he said. “Though he has his limits,” he said, as he took a sip from the cup. “Ah,” he smacked his lips. “Some of which can be cured through chemistry. The sweetener was worth the expense, I think. Not for every meal, of course, but on occasion.”

  She sipped from her own cup. It was better than it had sounded, though she couldn't share his enthusiasm. “Mmm,” she said, to avoid antagonizing him.

  “I wanted to eat with you to discuss something. There isn't enough work in the kitchen, even for one, to justify taking you off salvage entirely. But I was a fool to believe we could insulate you sufficiently. It's a harsh world in the cloud, and you're too fragile and... important to risk so brazenly. But I think I may have an idea of another means of compensation. We'll need all hands on this salvage, but once we get back to port I can hire on another scavenger, to free you from such an...inappropriate use of you.”

  “I, I,” Ilsa stammered. “Potts is going to need my help with the washing up.”

  “Of course,” he said. “And I appreciate your conscientious approach to sharing the ship's duties. You may go.”

  She made her way back to the kitchen. But she was terrified. She had heard men talk in those euphemistic tones before. She didn't enjoy scavenging, but the idea of whoring for her passage was more than she could stomach.

  Potts recognized her ill humor. “You look worse than when you came back here this morning to work after I beat on you. So what's put more fear in you than I did?” he asked, and his voice was gentle.

  “The captain. He wants to take me off scavenging duty. I think he means to...” she couldn't bring herself to say the words aloud.

  Potts smiled. When she didn't seem to get the joke, his smile grew to a grin, until the laughter in his smile couldn't stay behind his teeth any longer, and he bellowed it out loudly. “The captain can't make you his woman. Can't make anybody his woman,” he said, and held out his pinky, then curled it inward. Ilsa fr
owned at the gesture.

  “The captain started scavenging young. Got a few lucky scores, and was able to buy his own schooner as a schoolboy. Because of that he was running before he'd fully learned why the other scavengers were walking. He ended up scavenging in a puddle to his waist tainted with waste—of the nuclear runoff variety. It came off a reactor upstream. Grapes and vine shriveled to raisins and came off.”

  He narrowed his eyes. “Not a word of it,” he said. “I've known him from that lad, and there's few on this ship who know the tale—fewer who know it for true.”

  She made a motion of closing her lips with a key. They continued finishing the cleaning in silence, then Ilsa made her way back to her bunk. Tyson was with her, holding up the tank she'd been working on the day before as she regenerated it.

  When she saw Ilsa, Christine lowered her hands, breathing heavily. “The rest will have to wait ‘til tomorrow.” He nodded to her and took the tank out of the room with him.

  “Everything okay?” Christine said. “You were gone an awful long time.”

  “He apologized,” Ilsa said. “But...”

  “The captain wants to take me off scavenging after this trip.”

  “Is that good?” Christine asked.

  “I don't know. He sounded like he has an idea of a good 'use' to put me to. I kind of thought... he meant to turn me out. But the cook says he's a eunuch. So now I don't know what to think.”

  “I think it means it's time for us to leave.”

  “I'm not sure that wouldn't be premature,” she said.

  “Yeah, but it would be overmature if we waited until he was keeping you chained in a public place for the rest of the crew to 'use.'”

  “Even if I was convinced we should go, how much air do we have?”

  “Not enough. Canister and a half from you, and one from me. A few hours of clean air—if we weren't moving around much. But I've been thinking about that, and I think the two things are complementary.”

  “I've got an idea about how we can do it.” Tyson knocked on the door. “Follow my lead.”

  Tyson entered with their tanks, like the day before. He was moving slower on account of his injuries. He seemed to stare through them, as if he didn't remember any of the previous day. Ilsa viewed it as a kindness.

  They took their tanks, and he helped them get them situated as before. “Are there any extra duffles?” Christine asked. For the first time, his eyes came alive in his head. “I don't think filling one duffle is going to cut it for the three of us,” she explained. “And I think maybe part of why we were slowed up yesterday was the forced proximity. Having to stick so close together meant we weren't casting our net far enough.”

  “There are,” he said finally. “We'll stop by the stores on our way up to the deck.”

  Tyson walked them by the small storage area where Ilsa had met Azuretz earlier. Beneath a table were flattened-out packs. Tyson picked one up and was about to hand it to Ilsa, then changed his mind, and gave it to Christine.

  They followed him up to the ship with their staves. He was less polite in jockeying for a position at the edge of the bridge. When he glared, Doates put up his hands, moved to the side, and let him stand ahead of him.

  Tyson was quiet on their way back towards the office buildings. “Five hours,” he said once they reached the buildings. “You're with me,” he said to Ilsa. “Captain's orders.”

  “You're on your own,” he said to Christine. They shared a glance, realizing what that meant. On the one hand, it freed her up to work towards their plan. On the other, it meant she was going to have to produce, or it would be her back covered in scars.

  “We'll start upstairs,” he said. “And remember, the Lower Level's fucked. We can't leave good salvage lying around, but be aware that if the bottom drops out, it's a long way before you hit what's below.”

  Tyson led the way, his movements slow and conservative. He pointed to the first room on the right. Ilsa went inside. “We'll take this side,” he said. “You're opposite. When we beat you to the end, we'll loop back around to meet you.”

  * * *

  The office building scared Christine more without Tyson. Every shadow was a crew member or another Monkey lurking. And she found herself fourth and fifth guessing every potential salvage. She spent the better part of thirty seconds contemplating whether or not a hot plate was worth trying to take apart or take whole. She didn't like being without a net.

  That thought seemed to snap her back to reality. Because the both of them, her and Ilsa, were operating without any kind of protection. They were at Coronetto's mercy, which was in terribly short supply.

  Which was why she needed to move quickly, to think quickly. If her escape plan didn't pan out, she was going to need a decent day's salvage or...

  She smacked a small clip-on fan with her staff. The plastic clip crumbled away, leaving a warped spring mechanism in its stead. She pried the plastic housing off the fan with her staff and shoved the internal components into her duffle.

  In the corner of the room, she noticed another vent askew. She crawled inside. This stash had contained Monkey's food and perishables. It made sense that he'd kept them on a higher level—less likely to attract the rats. There were emptied cans and containers, but nothing to salvage.

  But what it did do was give her an opening. She left the room and turned towards the stairs. “Hey!” Tyson called from the third room down the right. “Where are you going?”

  She swore. She hadn't expected him to notice. But that was why she waited until she had a good pretext prepared. “I found another Monkey stash. Tapped, but he had food hidden behind a fan housing. There was one downstairs, but I didn't think—”

  “You didn't check behind it,” he said. He clearly wanted to hurt her for that; if there was anything there, it was probably the difference between the lashes he took and the gentler lashing of the captain's tongue. “Go,” he said. “If there's anything there, tell the captain, and take it back to the ship. If not, back to work.”

  She was able to run quickly downstairs because she knew the spot. She counted out the cannisters and filters, and immediately forgot two-thirds of the total. She ran the duffle back. She didn't want eyes to linger on how full it was on the way back to the ship, because it wasn't going to be so full the next time they laid eyes on it.

  As she approached the ship, she slowed up. A lifetime of blending in had prepared her to not be noticed. She hunched her shoulders, walked with an uneven gait, but not so much as to give her a limp; just enough to emphasize her ordinariness.

  As soon as she was below deck on the ship she went into a full run, and didn't slow until she had the door shut. She emptied out her salvage onto the floor. She left every third cannister and tapped filter, the most beat-up ones first. The ones that seemed passable, she packed back into the duffle, and carried to the store room.

  There was a metal shutter separating her from the fresh tanks. It retracted, which was why she'd never seen it before. It was secured with a combination lock. She swore.

  She remembered Tessa teaching her how to pick a lock with a hairpin, but she didn't have one of those—and she had always been preoccupied with unlocking Tessa, so even if she had one, she wasn't sure she could get it open.

  But she did have one talent that she had never been able to tell Tessa about. She held the lock between her hands and concentrated. She subtly warped the mechanism inside, felt the tumblers shift at the weight of her concentration. Her body started to shake. “Open, you stubborn fuck,” Christine muttered to the lock.

  It clicked and opened. She nearly collapsed under the weight of her relief, but caught herself on the shutter. She glanced down both ends of the hall, but everyone else was off earning their keep. She rolled up the door.

  She exchanged the less dilapidated tanks for regenerated ones, and the spent filters for fresh. She put the best looking ones nearer to the front—though all of them to the rear. It wouldn't do if one of the scavengers went to exch
ange his and found used canisters.

  She arranged the tanks and filters in the duffle so they would lay as flatly against her as she could. At a glance, it would appear the sack was empty.

  Then she saw the captain, working the recycle yard with the rest of the crew. She needed to tell him that she had found some portion of Monkey's stash. She set the duffle down on the ship's deck and jogged to where he was working. He was sweating, and wiped his bare arm across his forehead before readjusting his mask so it covered to his hairline.

  “We found Monkey's stash,” she said. “I just carried it aboard. Sixteen cannisters, all tapped out, and seven filters.”

  He glared menacingly. “That's perhaps a quarter of what he stole. Slippery cunt.” Instinctively, Christine started to reach for her knife stuck in the back of her pants. “He must have had more than one cache.” He sighed. “We'll find them. Did you secure them?” She stared at him blankly. “Put them someplace another scavenger isn't likely to find them and add to his own pile of salvage?”

  She nodded slowly. “Good girl. We'll see it's counted to yours.” She nodded quickly and bolted back towards the ship.

  He unnerved her. She half-expected he would watch her go back to the ship and wonder why. When she reached the ramp, she glanced back in his direction. He was already hunched over a pile of metal shards, picking through the remains of some ancient hulk of machinery.

  She wondered if she'd been greedy with the filters she had taken, because the bag looked conspicuously not empty. She knew there was no way to fool a close inspection, but she hoped it wouldn't come down to that. She hoisted the duffle onto her shoulder and walked down the ramp.

  She glanced nervously around, but the other scavengers weren't paying her any mind. They were focused on their own salvage efforts.

  She hurried back to the office building. She was careful to make sure Tyson wasn't watching the hall before she entered the Upper Level room with Monkey's vent. She hid the tanks where the food had been.

  As she was crawling out of the vent, she banged her knee, and the metallic sound echoed. Tyson was on her before she could even stand up straight. “Expected you to be onto the next room by now,” he said, eyeing her suspiciously.