This one she could not blame on drinking. This time it was all squarely on her.
“You did it again Yana. You have no self-control. You horrible– you evil–”
Her self-flagellation caught in her throat. She thought she would puke. She sobbed.
She drank last night. She drank a lot. And had that been all, she would not have wept.
What made her most upset was that she was not drunk. She was fully aware.
She remembered everything, but it was as if she had done it all with a devil on her shoulder.
In her head she reviewed everything she had done as if she had watched a stranger do it.
But it was not some stranger. It was herself. She did it, and she knew it, and hated the fact.
On the nightstand, an empty bottle. Apricot liquor. Fancy stuff; it was a big enough bottle that she hoped she had help with it. A headache, a sense of burning in her chest, and the cold sweat running down her face, down her back; she had drunk it. She had drunk a lot. However, the most mortifying thing is she never lost control. Everything she did was impulsive but deliberate.
Last night she had gone out to celebrate the end of the recent crisis. Drinking, dancing, at different venues across the station, at the plazas, co-ops, canteens, joining a throng of celebrants. She hit it off with a particular someone, and from there everything felt like magic. Lovely, witty conversation, fast, flirtatious dancing, great booze. They found a private nook, and after slipping the coat off her shoulders, she dove into that first hungry kiss in the neck. Then she went home, and not alone. She had lifted her up by her legs, dropped her onto the bed, devoured her.
Yana gagged, the burning in her chest rising to her throat.
No amount of being drunk justified it. She felt mortified. This was her own room and her own bed that she had woken up in. And the stranger sharing it with her was her responsibility.
A dark-haired, waifish young woman laid beside her, close enough to share her warmth. Young; clearly younger than Yana. Her chest rose and fell with gentle breathing, completely exposed with all the loving red marks which had been put on the tips of her breasts, her collarbones, between her thighs. Atop her head a pair of cat-like, neatly fluffy ears periodically twitched.
Every so often a tiny little moan would escape her lips. Her tail would curl up too.
Her sleep was untroubled. Maybe she had just not drank as much,
She covered the girl up with a sheet. Both for her comfort and dignity, and to hide her.
“How old is she, Yana,” She berated herself.
Her shaking fingers hit the wall, and the room computer put up the ID that had been logged.
The woman she had spent the night having sex with was 27 years old.
“Yana, you’re nine years older than her.”
She brought the same hand she had used to type into the wall, up to her face.
Her whole body was shaking with shame. She absolutely hated herself.
Among other things she was shaking with, was her continuing, heavy bout with nausea.
Bolting from the bed, she rushed her own cold, naked body to the bathroom, where she bent over the waste collection vents. Seemingly understanding of her plight, the bathroom spread a fine, sweet-smelling mist over her as it washed away the contents of her stomach. She felt the sting of the liquor coming back up her throat. She hated it; she hated herself so much for this.
“I’ll apologize when she wakes up.” She said, breathlessly, to herself. “I’ll ask if she wants anything from me and I’ll give it to her. If she wants me to appear before council, or marriage–”
She could hardly think back to the other times this had happened where no restitution was necessary, as she was caught in such a mire of self-loathing that everything seemed a grand crime and nothing about the other woman’s agency entered her head. She was in this state, watching her bathroom clean itself, for several minutes, before a notification appeared on the wall next to her.
“Ulyana Korabiskaya. I request to meet with you.”
Yana was speechless, staring with a wide, horror-stricken gaze at the ID of the visitor.
While her bed was taken up by a woman in the afterglow, while she was naked, with her knees on the floor bent over a grate, and the apartment smelled of booze and sweat despite the best effort of the machines– the Commissar-General was at her door awaiting an audience.
Was this it? The day that her absurd life would be put to an end?
“Ulyana Korabiskaya, your room says it is occupied. It is past 1100 hours and you should be awake. I am willing to leave a message, but this discourtesy is highly irregular, and I resent it.”
It was past 1100 hours.
Yana raised her hand up to her face and pulled down in distress.
“Just a moment!” She shouted. “One minute and I’ll be there!”
From her bed she heard a low murmur, and a purring noise.
Yana froze in place.
“I will wait.” Nagavanshi said.
Her heart was stuck in her chest. She could not breathe or move.
There was silence for just enough to convince Yana that the girl had not woken up.
Carefully, she rose to her feet, and pulled a nearly see-through casual robe from her closet.
Throwing this on, her hair slightly wet, she appeared to have stepped out of the shower.
In this attire, she opened the door a crack, and smiled at the Commissar-General.
“Good morning, Nagavanshi!” She said cheerfully. “My, it has been so long hasn’t it?”
“It’s good to see you again. Get dressed. We need to speak at length.”
Nagavanshi’s expression was humorless as usual. Always pristinely uniformed, no matter where she went; she was a walking office, exercising her duty every hour of the day. She was a woman of slight stature, professional and groomed, with her hair tied up under her peaked cap, her dark skin completely unadorned with makeup or accessories of any kind. Her gaze was the most intense part of her, unwavering even with her eyes shaded by her cap and framed by tidy bangs.
Yana laughed. She sounded audibly uncomfortable and she could not hide it.
“I had a bit of a rough night.” Yana said.
“I can tell. What you need is to eat something and get some plaza air. Come on.”
For a brief moment Nagavanshi turned her head to try to see around Yana.
“Okay! Give me a few minutes!”
Yana slammed the door shut.
She put her back to it, breathing ragged, staring at the placidly sleeping girl in her bed.
Their clothes were on the floor. In one corner she found her dress, and the one-piece wet suit she had worn last night. So the tiny, filmy, erotic black dress must have belonged to the woman in her bed. Her lover’s suit was shaded mesh that was almost see-through, and the dress itself had plenty of gaps for skin to show. It was an incredibly bold design, at the cutting edge of fashion — and maybe modesty. Yana loved it; it was the kind of clothes she would have loved to wear, if she did not feel a persisting shame in the pit of her stomach for being a party girl at age 36.
Yana tapped on the wall again and brought the woman’s ID one more time.
Her name was Aaliyah Bashara.
“I’ll make it up to you.” She clapped her hands together and bowed her head as if begging. “Please forgive me!” Trying not to drop dead from the overwhelming, mortifying sense of shame she felt with herself, Yana donned a casual one-piece swimsuit, along with a jacket and a pair of pants. Her long, wavy blond hair she quickly tied up behind the back of her head with a big, sturdy hair claw. There was no time to fix her makeup. She just washed her face and dabbed it off.
Aaliyah was not stirring throughout. She was out like a light.
Yana pinned a wall computer window on one of the walls, leaving it open with a note.
I have to go, but I will make it up to you. — Yana K.
There was no more time to agonize over what she could say or do for Aaliyah Bashara that would be enough to assuage her own guilt and shame, let alone any feelings Aaliyah Bashara actually had about the night they had spent. With little consideration for the young woman and a head full of completely self-centered thoughts, Yana finally left the apartment to meet Nagavanshi outside. The Commissar, for her part, had not changed in demeanor for the better or the worse.
“You look in total disarray.” Nagavanshi said. “Let’s get you some food.”
Yana sighed. She walked behind the Commissar; her steps unsteady, her head pounding.
Owing to her distinguished service, Yana lived in a slightly nicer apartment in one of the slightly nicer habitats in the Block on Thassal station. Her habitat was on the opposite side of the Thassal mound from a certain Lieutenant’s. While all accommodations were supposed to be equal, and at least in size they were, it was a fact that older habitats built or refurbished after the Revolution were the lesser kin of newer habitats. These had more consistent power, and slightly better access to water and climate control owing to their newer desalinators, recycler systems and air treatment. They also had wider halls and more accessible plazas and shopping strips.
Room assignment was “decided by machine.” Computers did not make any decisions by themselves, of course, they had no capability to do so. What this meant was that a program would be run to randomly assign housing, making sure people of all kinds were represented among all blocks of housing stock. But Union leadership also used housing as a reward mechanism in certain cases. Yana was not the only medal-earning military veteran to have a room in a nicer habitat.
It was one of many things she did not feel she deserved.
However, it was impossible for her to turn down machine-awarded accolades.
From Yana’s habitat they made their way to the services district, which had an open space for trading or bartering as well as a canteen serving hot food and a government shop with clothes and other necessities. Contained within a glass and steel structure, the space was designed so the inhabitants could see out into the flooded cave deep in the center of Thassal Station’s stone mound. All manner of odd deep dwelling creatures passed by the glass for curious onlookers to see.
There were a few tables filled with various things to be traded or bartered with. Some of the objects were accompanied by their owners, who were looking to negotiate. Others were left with a note of encouragement from the former owner. By far the most common items were clothes. Many people traded clothing to acquire new fashions, since fancy, innovative clothing was mostly the handiwork of hobbyists and not government-backed industry. There were also books, and even a few diskettes of someone’s homemade video game, free for anyone interested.
Nagavanshi did not acknowledge the presence of the table. Her gaze was fixed forward.
She always struck Yana as someone who already had everything she needed for her life.
If Nagavanshi wanted anything, it must have been intangible. Influence; power; love?
As depressing as it sounded, Yana did not believe Nagavanshi capable of the latter.
At the seating area specifically for the canteen they found a small table for two. Soon a boy in overalls stopped at their table, flashed them a chipper smile and asked to take their orders. He could not have been older than fourteen. He was fulfilling his community work credit for school.
“What will it be ladies? Item A or Item B?”
Canteens served two different meals during the day, and another two different meals at night. The menu was based on what they could prepare to feed potentially thousands of people with the resources they had on hand. It was rude to ask exactly what was being served, but suggestions and alterations based on mood, availability, or dietary needs, could be made right at the table.
In her case, Yana had a simple question. “Which one’s the fattiest?”
Her father had always told her that a fatty meal and a bottomless glass of seltzer water was the only real cure for drunkenness. Nagavanshi glared at her, likely misunderstanding her intent.
“You’ll be wanting ‘B’; I’ll tell big sis to give you some extra margarine.”
He turned a big smile on Nagavanshi. She gave him back the tiniest little smirk.
“I’ll take ‘A’.” Nagavanshi said.
“Coming right up!”
From the table, the boy darted cheerfully back to the canteen counter, and conferred with the woman doing the cooking for the day. Soon, the boy returned with two plastic cases worth of food, which included their own plastic cutlery. Each of the menus had a drink. Yana’s came with a clear soda flavored only with a bit of syrup. Nagavanshi had a yellow drink from a citrus powder.
There had been an upward trend in their meals recently, and had the circumstances been different Yana would have found this lunch to be a highlight of the day. A triangular slice of cornbread, resting on a pool of margarine and pickled chicken’s eggs, made up half the plate. The real treasure was slices of battered, fried eggplant rounds. She almost believed they were fresh.
On Nagavanshi’s plate, there was a big biscuit that had been soaked in broth and took on a honey-brown color and turned soft. This biscuit was then set on a puddle of broth that had been scooped into the case. On top of the biscuit there was tomato and corn relish, yeast shavings and pickled egg. Yana guessed that pickled egg was the protein of the day for Thassal station.
“Is it ok if I dig in? I have one hell of a ‘morning-after’ headache.” Yana asked.
Without answer, Nagavanshi dipped her spoon into her biscuit and took a bite.
Yana nodded, and tucked into her own plate. Eggplant was nice and salty, well-breaded.
Nagavanshi barely nipped at her food. She gave Yana time eat before she talked again.
“You didn’t participate in the battle for Thassalid trench. Why did you refuse to?”
A direct assault right after lunch! Yana was ill prepared to be questioned like this.
She almost choked on the last bite of her food. She took a long gulp of soda water.
“It is your right not to do so, but I don’t understand. You could have been a valuable asset. You have much more experience on a large ship than some of the people who received ships there.”
Nagavanshi continued to calmly interrogate her, ignoring Yana’s clear distress.
Once her throat was finally clear, Yana could finally take audible offense to this inquiry.
“I exercised my rights! You’re correct, they’re my rights, I have a right not to go to war if I choose to do so. I served my time. Let the eager young people have a chance at those battles!”
“You refuse the battle, but it appears that you don’t refuse the party afterwards.”
The Commissar-General had a weary expression on her face. A tired, concerned gaze.
Though it was hard to tell with her, perhaps it even signified worry.
And Yana hated it. She hated it almost as much as she hated herself.
This was not a battle of words between one of the highest authorities in the nation and a pathetic, drunk, womanizing has-been Captain. Yana realized that she was speaking to Parvati, a woman who had once served under her. A woman who had been educated alongside her. A woman who, perhaps with some personal ambiguities, could be considered a friend, or at least a peer.
They were acting as equals in this discussion. Painful as it was, Yana recognized that.
And how dare she? How dare she come back like this after being distant for so long?
“Why did you come to Thassal Station, Nagavanshi? Surely it wasn’t for this?”
Nagavanshi looked upset. “I came to laugh at you. Is that what you want to hear?”
There was only one way that Yana could think to reply to that. “Fuck you!”
“You imagined from the outset that I was here to make you the victim you want to be.”
Yana stood up suddenly and put both fists against the table, rocking the lunch boxes.
“Parvati, you’re still nothing but the little rulebook-citing twerp who kept the bridge crew in line with me. I’ll put your head through this table right now. Don’t test me with your bullshit.”
“Listen to me Yana.” Nagavanshi was always so calm, and Yana hated that even more. “I have a proposal for you. You can beat me up afterwards if you want. In the end, it won’t matter either way. If you do what I want, I’ll be beaten down by the bravest hero the Union has ever seen. And if you refuse me, I’ll be beaten up by a pathetic nobody who has amounted to nothing.”
Yana stopped in her tracks. Her eyes watered, her rage quickly dissolving. All her emotions were starting to divert elsewhere. She had gone from seeing red, to seeing nothing but her tears. She barely heard Nagavanshi, but she understood enough to realize there was a lot more happening than just her politically ascendant old shipmate coming to patronize her old failure of a Captain.
“No matter what happens, I’ll wipe the blood out of my lips. I’ve already won.”
Nagavashi procured a picture from her uniform coat and laid it on the table.
It was a photograph of a ship. A rather odd ship. Long, two-tiered, boxy.
“What is this?” Yana asked. She settled back into her seat. All of her ravaneous energy was gone. That terrifying instant of power and violence had passed her by, and she felt twice her age. Tired, overwhelmed. She took the picture in her hands. “Is this a hauler? Do you want me to haul?”
“She’s special.” Nagavanshi said. “I want you to take her on a journey.”
“No.” Yana shook her head weakly. Her voice was losing all conviction. “I can’t.”
“You’re an incredible Captain. You command respect, discipline, sympathy. Your instincts are sharp; you’re a survivor; you’re a polyglot. You are good with people, situations, and gear. Nobody else can handle this. Anyone else in our peer group would fail; they will fail as people to their own crew, or fail militarily, or fail diplomatically, when the pressure really builds up.”
Yana brought her hands up to her face to hide her tears. “Parvati I really cannot.”
“I do not expect you to comply immediately. But you belong in a ship again, Yana.”
“Parvati, I really cannot do this right now.”
“You still blame yourself for the Pravda, don’t you?”
Nagavanshi’s tone was as neutral as always. Yana could tell, however, that she was being soft. As soft as she could be, with as much empathy as her strict, materialist self could muster.
It was too much to bear. It made her head pound harder. Yana just couldn’t take it.
“How can I not?” She murmured.
“Because you had nothing to do with it. You were exonerated near immediately. It was the result of negligence and all those responsible paid their dues for it.”
Yana forced herself to make eye contact with Nagavanshi.
Her face was full of bitterness. Her eyes reddened with tears, wide open with resentment.
“I’m supposed to feel better because you found people to kill other than me?”
“You’re supposed to feel better because you were not to blame.”
“Forgive me, but I don’t see how that erases all the deaths I was helpless to stop.”
“You were a hero. Honestly, I can’t stand to see you choose to–”
“I didn’t choose anything!” Yana slammed the table again. From behind them, the canteen crew finally noticed the altercation and seemed hesitant. They would have known who Nagavanshi was. Yana didn’t care. “I didn’t even get to go down with my ship. That was also decided for me!”
This time however, Nagavanshi finally fell to her level and raised her voice.
“What would that have changed? You die and then what?”
Yana looked up at her with confusion. She was surprised to hear her finally emote.
Nagavanshi’s eyes returned a look to her that was just as bitter and resentful as her.
“If you ask me, it’s too convenient when soldiers just drop dead. There are so many stories that just end with a dead soldier and no more questions raised. Soldiers that don’t get to live don’t have to think about how to live after what they experienced. They don’t get healing; they don’t get redemption. I can’t offer you the former, but if you’re after the latter, then redeem yourself.”
She pushed the picture up to Yana, almost shoving it against the woman’s chest.
“This ship, the Brigand, is going to leave us for hundreds of days on a crucial mission. No other Captain will be able to shepherd a crew through such a long voyage. It has never been done. I believe that you can do it, Ulyana Korabiskaya. You can do it, precisely because you’ve faced hardship, and despite everything that has happened to you, no matter what, you continued living. You continued living because you inspired amazing men and women to give their all for you.”
Yana looked down at the picture of the ship, her eyes overflowing with tears.
She could not remember the terror of the Pravda except as scattered images, lights and sounds, screams and the hissing of gas, the feeling of fire kissing her back. That frustrating sense of ephemerality, that made her question whether anything truly happened at all, whether she was actually there to see it, brought tears to her eyes. She could not stop weeping over the table.
Through a heavy sob, she pushed the picture back toward Nagavanshi.
“Can I have a moment?” She asked. “To think about things.”
“You can cry all you want. I’ll wait.”
Yana sank against the table, sobbing heavily, unable to withstand the thundering of her former comrades’ words as they reverberated within her brain. To think that all those people died so that she would live, and all the misguided praise that the Commissar was heaping upon her. It felt so surreal. To be given a ship again after all she had been through, all she had failed to do.
A hand came to rest upon her hair.
It was gentle. Slender fingers stroked through her blonde locks without judgment.
“Cry all you need to before you come to the HQ tonight.”
Years’ worth of tears that had been caught inside the most cold, guarded recesses of Yana Korabiskaya came pouring out then. She did cry as if for two people, freely and without aim. Overwhelmed with shame and guilt, adrift in old injuries that she knew, no matter how much she tried, she would not be able to heal. Despite this: she wanted to take the offer now.