So I'm damn good at crash landing. Even intoxicated. I still land the flaming, completely destroyed unflyable ship safely. I don't, as a completely random, in personal, example, cut off the legs of anyone I'm flying with. And I'm not the smartest guy in the universe. And I'm slightly intoxicated. But still. The people in my ship are alive. and still have legs. Even though the ship is on fire and will be almost completely unflyable ever. People in it still have legs. Did I mention my passengers still had legs?
"Will you quit going back in for alcohol?" Lizze bodily drags me away from the burning ship. Using her mind of course she's no where near it.
"I'm not gonna die, I was caught in one on fire like that and my flight partner had to cut off my legs to get me out," I say, but I relent because she's really worried. I have my backpack which has most of my emergency supply in it. The awesome stuff is just so flammable.
"That's really disturbing and you're still not getting more alcohol," she says, keeping firm hold of my arm.
"Where'd the Bible freaks go?" I ask, looking around. I saw them get out of the ship okay when I helped Lizzie get out before going back for my precious wonderful life saving alcohol.
"They ran off into the woods I don't know why-- I was too busy stopping you from running back into a burning ship for booze," Lizzie says, accusingly.
"I'm not gonna die we have been over that---anyway, they shouldn't have run off," I say.
She shrugs, as we look at the ship, which is smoldering.
"I might be able to get it running again----fucking Isylgyns," I say, looking up at the sky, it's daylight so I can't even see the remains of the fire-fight we narrowly avoided. Why the hell did their rogue ships attack us? We didn't have New America or New Russian markings meaning we were smugglers and therefore not worth shooting.
(it's not your fault) Lizzie looks at me, probably sensing my guilt. Obviously. I was flying. Even if I did get us all down. Complete with our legs. Legs fully attached.
"You okay?" I ask, rubbing soot or grease off her cheek and brushing her hair out of her face, fixing her headband which was loose from all we just went through.
(yes)
"We'll wait till it burns out, there might be more we can salvage, plus the guns we were smuggling, I'd sooner we were armed," I say.
"Where are we?" she asks.
"I'm pretty sure we're in New Russia, though I'm not positive I was focusing on landing us." with our legs.
(have you ever been here) she looks around.
"We did like a meeting thing in their city once, never like, out here," I say.
She looks out at the forest.
(should we be worried about the Bible freaks?)
"Nah, they'll come back if they get hungry. If not they'll find someone new to take care of them," I say, sitting down and fishing a beer out of my backpack.
Lizzie sits down next to me.
(it was scary to crash)
"Yeah, you know I'm not gonna let you get hurt," I say, putting an arm around her shoulder.
(you remembered getting hurt)
"Yeah," I sigh.
**
"Five more eaten, forty eight to go," Sophie has gotten remarkably on board with this plan.
"Thankfully it's not a highly staffed base," I observe. We're doing the washing up. It feels sexist to make her do all of it. Plus the cleaning is cathartic.
"Are you gonna get another one tonight?" she asks. She tends to help. So far as accomplices go she's not bad. Maybe I should have selected an apprentice sooner. The child is decent, if sarcastic company, and she is fairly willing to do the less graphic portions of the deed, such as heavy lifting and cleaning, which is good because I'm not getting any younger and these Russian lads are tall and solid muscle.
"Probably we're getting low," I say, "If you're up for it."
"Sure," she says, "I can't believe they aren't noticing that the supply of food they give us doesn't match what we're feeding them."
"I can. You'll find my dear that those who are above rarely look at what happens down below, and that is their fatal error in most cases," I tell her, handing her a knife to dry.
"Yeah," she says, quietly.
"How did you come to New Russia? You've never said what made you leave home, and you're awfully young," I say.
"I'm not that young," she says.
"Everybody is young from where I'm standing, how old are you? Sixteen? You're a child," I inform her.
"I'm seventeen that's a not a child," she says.
"It is to me, and anyway, what did bring you here? Don't you have any family?" I ask.
"My stupid mom has this stupid boyfriend, they wanted me to go to University and be a doctor," she says.
"Nothing wrong with being a doctor," I say.
"You're a doctor," I told her that the other day when she wanted to know where I learned to cut up bodies.
"And that's how I know most of them aren't psychotic, I am the enigmatic exception," I say.
"Yeah well---it wasn't for me, and I wanted to---I don't know, do stuff," she says, shaking her head, "Join Space Forces or something. But they wouldn't let me. so I came here and I was trying to get a job but my visa was up."
"You should have been sent home, and I wouldn't join Space Forces, so far as I'm aware they are primarily psychotic," I say.
"How do you know?' she asks.
"My little brother joined them and they willingly kept him therefore they are all psychotic or mentally incompetent, that's the only reason they would have kept him and not sent him back or shot him," I say, making her laugh.
"You say weird stuff," she says, smiling all the same.
"And what's so sad is, most of it's true," I say, with a sigh, "Isn't it about time for you to go and collect their plates?"
"Oh shit it is----I hate the way they look at me like I'm their freakin' servant, they're no better than me," she scoffs.
"Want me to do it?" I offer.
"No, you like lick your lips and look at their necks and it's creepy," she says, drying her hands, "I'll do it."
"You wouldn't see me," I laugh, amused.
"No, but I'd know you're doing it and we don't need to be caught your stupid plan is working," she says, getting the cart, "I'll be back in a minute."
"All right," I say, going back to my washing up. I reflect on the fact my imprisonment and in fact, enslavement, is not nearly as unpleasant as I thought it would be. Honestly, this is not that bad. Accommodations are comfortable. And I have plenty of material upon whom to exercise my unique talents. Not that bad in the grand experiences of life. I shall be a bit sad to leave New Russia and go back to New America after all this. Or once I escape I shall just stay here. Sophie is amusing company as well. I wonder what I'll do with her when I escape. I feel I ought to make sure she gets somewhere safely she is a child.
"One of them isn't going to be made into a cannibal," even if she says things a bit too loud.
"Shh, some of them might know English. What, one of them doesn't like my cooking?" I ask, as she sets one plate on the long steel prep tables. The rest of them are mostly cleaned and are stacked on the cart.
"No, look," she says, pushing the plate towards me, "You should be insulted."
"Oh believe me I am----wait," I frown as I look at the plate. It's not touched. All the food is very neatly cut up into incredibly small bites and pushed around. but not eaten. Unless I'm very much mistaken not a single ounce was removed. "They're all men right?"
"Yeah, right, why?" she asks, as she starts to load the dishes into the washer.
"Hmm. A male Rexie, that's unusual but not unheard of," I say, quietly, before going to dump the food, "We did have some new people come in earlier today. Must be one of them."
"What're you talking about, what's a Rexie?" she asks, frowning.
"Oh, sorry, anorexia nervosa patient, often self-identify as 'rexies'---I was a pediatrician so I have seen numerous cases, typically victims of the disease are female, only about 5% of them are male, I never had a boy," I say, shaking my head.
"Well how could you tell this guy is one?" she asks, coming over.
"See?" I tip the plate to show her, "He's cut it all up and fussed with it, to the casual observer he's over there cutting things and looking at him, he's eating. They're not going to notice he's not putting it in his mouth, they're not his mum. Anorexics typically cut up the food like that to fool people who might be watching into thinking they're eating."
"What if he just wasn't hungry?" she asks.
"If you're not hungry you don't sit there hacking food into little bits do you? You say 'I'm not hungry' and you don't eat any of it," I say.
"Oh yeah, you're right," she says.
"Besides these pieces are miniscule, even if you were cutting it up and then going to eat it, why would you do it into tiny little pieces and leave them all separated nicely like that? He's playing with his food till the meals over," I say, "Moreover, see how he cut with the grain of the meat? He appreciates the food, he just can't bring himself to eat it."
"Why not? I mean I know girls get like that 'cause they want to look good for like, society or some shit--- but guys aren't supposed to be skinny like girls," she says.
"Body issues in general, or more likely a manifestation of OCD, controlling your weight is something you can control, and for someone who might not be enjoying military service, it could be a way of relieving anxiety," I say, moving to scrap the plate and put it in the washer.
"Huh," Sophie says, "You sound like you were a good doctor, other than the being a cannibal part."
"Hush---I enjoyed it. I liked talking the kids, those in the mental health unit were sad ones though, trapped in their own minds, I'd much rather deal with the body," I say, "The anorexics I came in to treat because they were dying from not eating."
"They literally starve themselves to death? That's awful," Sophie winces.
"Mmhmm, sometimes there's nothing you can do," I say, putting the plate in to clean, "Anyway, we'll have to keep an eye out for this one."
The door slams open.
"What sort of criminal can make Bearnaise sauce and butternut squash soup with the shit ingredients Space Command gives you?" an emaciated boy says in decent English, as he strolls in. He's in the stiff black and blue uniform they all wear. But despite his gaunt appearance he's clearly a boy, definitely no older than Sophie. Based off of what I know of the ranks he's terribly high up as well.
"A talented one, I notice you hardly touched it," I say, in Russian.
"How would you know which plate is mine?" he asks, frowning and responding in English. He wears black leather gloves on his hands. "She collected the plates. And how do you know Russian? And you didn't answer me how you're such a good cook. What did you do?"
"I've done nothing wrong," I say, with a great deal of passion for someone who has done a considerable number of things wrong.
"How do you know how to cook and why are you here?" he asks, almost irritated.
"It's a hobby of mine. I'm here because an estranged family member of mine is something of a big deal with the New American military, and so despite our estrangement that makes me not safe to be out, so now I'm a prisoner, with a job, ergo your slave" I say, "And I speak Russian because I planned on living here—I learnt it when I was a boy. But for the present let's speak in English so Sophie here can participate in the conversation."
"Ah," he says, relaxing a little, and trying to hide how curious he was "I'm the new commander here, I make a point of meeting all the new staff."
"How'd you get to be a commander? You're a child," I say.
"You can't speak to me like that," he says, he has an air of assured arrogance about him I quite like. Get some food in the boy and he'd be a decent man some day. Judging from the fine hair already growing on his arms and face, and his yellowing skin, let alone ghastly body weight, he has a year if not months before he succumbs to his condition. He's nearly as tall as I yet he can't weigh more than a hundred pounds.
"I'm already your slave," I point out, "And terribly important you wouldn't be down here if you weren't interested in a chat. Five will get you ten none of them up there could pronounce Bearnaise nor did they appreciate it. you did even if you didn't touch it."
"I tasted it," he says.
"Did you spit it back out?" I ask.
He looks away.
"If I make you consommé---just you the others like their red meat---would you drink it?" I offer. It will take hours. but he'll appreciate it.
"I doubt it," he mutters, under his breath.
"Seventy calories in the bowl, That's less than five in a spoon full. I'll make it for you tomorrow night. Nobody ever appreciates my efforts, it would be a pleasure," I say.
"All right, do," he says, "And don't bother with anything special for the rest of them, they don't appreciate it, they just shovel it in their mouths. It's disgusting."
"As you wish," I say. If only he knew how disgusting.
"What's consommé?" Sophie asks, raising a hand.
"It's a soup, made from egg whites, stock, and some type of meat, usually vegetables but it's slowly simmered and skimmed for impurities, it's quite hard," the boy answers, "You're Sophie?"
"Yeah," she says.
"I'm Commander Solokov, don't let him work you too hard with his complicated recipes, all right?" he says, so there's a kindness in his eyes. "You do the laundry as well?"
"Yes, sir," she says.
"You're not tonight, you can---sometime tomorrow," he says, turning to go.
"Um—okay."
"No, you're not going to get to know why," he says, leaving.
"Awww, give him actual meat he was sweet if mean," she says as soon as the door closes.
"He's dying is what he is, and if it will appease your crush I'll use beef," I say, going back to setting things out for the morning.
"I do not have a crush on that arrogant sack of bones. I hate him."
"Yes, I have a standing theory you cannot truly hate someone unless you are in love with them."
**
I hate them so much. Like I am aware that there is actual mental disability involved. There is some processing that should be happening that is just not. I know that. There are a variety of syndromes, Quentin and I looked them up once as a method of coping. But that doesn't make it any easier. It should but it doesn't.
For clarification, I'm standing in the middle of a jungle by a wrecked ship with the retarded people.
"So who did you have sex with on leave?" Quinn asks, completely unphased by recent near death events.
"You only care so much because it's never going to happen to you," Titus says, gently. They've been doing this for like fifteen minutes.
"Younger? Older? What younger? Who younger than you would want to have sex with you? I mean I realize nursing homes are not the happening place that's pretty much the foundation of my theory of why you aren't a virgin----"
"Okay, I'm separating you two," I say, walking in between them.
"We're bored," Titus complains as he tries to reach past me to hurt Quinn in some way.
"Oh, I'm sorry Titus, is being in crash landed boring to you? After being shot down during a fire fight?" I ask, dryly.
"No, just waiting for Thorn to get all the alcohol out of the ship is," Titus says, "Then I'm going to fix it."
"You can't fix it anymore than you can get periodically laid—engine coils are blown," Quinn says, pointing at the ship for emphasis but standing a safe distance away.
"Oh my god, do you have a one track mind?" I sigh, "Quinn, you're supposed to be sane for me."
"I know, but he actually had sex and I really need to know who voluntarily slept with him, it's important to me," Quinn says, pleadingly.
"Well you can talk to him about it when we're not here, and I'm not around," I really don't want to know. it's like, kind of disgusting to think about for me and I wish they would stop talking about. I mean I don't care if he's seeing someone else----okay I completely do. But I'm okay with it. I have rejected his offers of undying love. Usually on a weekly basis. But I still don't have to think about him and other people.
"Okay, I think that's everything---thank you all for the help," Thorn says, climbing back out of the burning ship with Quinn's poor cadet, Everett.
"We all know you've been getting alcohol for the last ten minutes," Titus says, flatly.
"And you're making him carry it," I say, pointing at Everett, who is carrying an extra bag along with his go-bag.
"We are stranded with that---which was probably it's plan---"
"You know that's very de-humanizing—"
"Shut up Titus," like four people.
"I'm a Lt. Col.---" Titus says, looking down at his chest to be sure.
"You literally had to check," I say, "How can you not know?"
"I don't pay attention to social constructs that are not significant on a daily basis."
"That's your job, it is the definition of significant on a daily basis," I explain to him.
"Yes, talking about something other than sex is good but we could be—oh I don't know, talking about what we're going to do---oh wait, the person who was flying---" Thorn begins.
"That was me," Titus raises his hand.
We all look at him.
"Oh, you all knew that----okay----well, as far as I could tell from the maps we landed somewhere in New Russia," Titus says, "They have bases at decent intervals and since I'm sure they saw us go down. they'll send out a rescue party. In the meantime a couple of their ships went down and I think a smuggler's ship though I was busying making sure most of us survived the crash—"
"MOST OF US---"
"I wouldn't have minded if you'd died—and so we can try to find the other ships to salvage for parts to fix ours. We can do remote take off these cargo ships have enough lift," Titus finishes.
"You're not supposed to admit you want people to die, Col Card," Quinn says, head in his hands.
"He just admitted he wants to kill me," Thorn says, pointing at Titus.
"And you're drunk on duty while we're stating the obvious," Titus says, flatly.
"Okay, Titus, you need to be nice to people even if you don't like them we've talked about this," I say.
"Okay," he mutters.
"How did somebody get through having sex with you without you saying something totally caustic that would make them leave?" Quinn asks.
"Oh my god, Starr, get a fucking hobby other than his sex life, got it?" I ask.
"It wasn't you? No I could tell if it was you or he'd just tell me he narrates his whole relationship with you-----oww-okay sorry it's seriously bothering me!!!" Quinn says, as I just hit him upside the head.
"All right, so, Titus who has just admitted he'd wished I'd died—"
"I never said I wish you'd died," Titus says.
"But that is what you meant, right?" Thorn asks.
"Yes," Titus says, nodding.
"I'm going to lose my mind and it will be your two's fault," I say, pointing at Quinn and Titus. they look innocent. Well, Quinn looks innocent and Titus looks over his shoulder.
"So moving on," Thorn says, through gritted teeth, "What is our plan?"
"We should probably walk short distances to see the surrounding area and if any other ships went down they may need HELP Titus, and then go from there. the Russians do have bases through out the jungles there's the possibility there's a road or something nearby."
"Oh yes, and there could be supplies on the other ships and if we run out of food we could eat the dead of the crew------what? I am being helpful now, you see you all get cross with me if I'm helpful or unhelpful so I might as well be unhelpful," Titus sighs.
"That's it. We're having him tested," Thorn says, flatly.
"He passes psychological tests----" I begin.
"I'm talking about a priest."
"Titus considering we are in a very fertile jungle with weapons I see no reason we would have to turn to cannibalism," I say, gently.
"That's true," Titus looks a little disappointed, "Oh well. I wouldn't know how to cook a human anyway---"
"GOOD!!!" like four people
"But it can't be hard," Titus reasons.
"And we're not going to have to worry about that because chances are there's a road less than a mile from where we are," I point out, "And we're a much greater risk of our oxygen tanks running out than we are of running out of food."
"That's true, but we can live without oxygen," Titus reasons.
"Not and hike and climb about in all this," Quinn says.
"So we'll die," this is the first time Cadet Everett has spoken. His voice is soft and wispy and his eyes are staring far away.
"No, we're not going to die," I say, kindly, "Ignore them—I'm going with 95% of the time—"
"But we out rank him---"
"Yeah we get to talk to him—"
"And tell him what to do---"
"Yes we like doing that---"
"Shut up you two. All right? We'll be just fine," I say.
"Yes, ma'am," he mumbles.
"And don't carry all this," I say, taking Commander Thorn's alcohol from him, "Titus, come here, you're carrying it."
"Why me?" Titus asks.
"Because you drive him to drink," I inform him.
"No I don't trust him with it I love it too much—"
"He'll carry it properly, because he knows I will be very, very cross with him if he does not, right?" I ask Titus, attaching the extra bag to his go back which I'm almost positive is not actually packed with the correct number of MREs and instead contains many packets of milk. Many many packets of milk.
"Right," Titus mumbles.
"Good job," I say, patting him on the head. Remember how I said I read a book on encouraging good behavior in dogs? "I have cookies in my bag to go with your milk."
"You do?" he asks, hopefully, "Is there anything else I can do that would please you?"
"Are you training him? Using cookies and praise as rein----" I punch Quinn in the throat, thankfully Titus doesn't see because he noticed something shiny in the bushes.
"You really need to shut up," I tell Quinn.
"So the answer is yet but okay message received," Quinn says, rubbing his throat, "Don't cross her, Everett. or listen to music while she's talking to you to drown out her talking to you."
"You're so polite all the time, I forget what an asshole you are," I say, rubbing Quinn's shaved head because it's fuzzy and he likes that lonely clever devil. We leave him alone with Titus way too much. It's a shame the only other person as clever as he is is insane.
"I know at least I can hide it," he says, staring at Titus.
"Ship parts," Titus says, exactly as happy as a child finding a ruble in the street, "A Z-297. I've always wanted to fly one. Let's find it."
"Yes let's do that, shouldn't somebody be remembering the way back to the ship?" Thorn asks, nervously.
"Sir, I am," Quinn says, cutting a notch into a tree, "Everett, this is how you find you find your way back someplace, always mark a trail."
"Sir," Cadet Everett says, rubbing his ear.
"Are you all right, cadet?" I ask.
"Yes, ma'am, just an odd ringing," he says.
"Tell me if it gets worse, you could have been injured in the crash," I say.
"Yes, ma'am," he says.
"He couldn't have been if so we'd all have been effected our trajectory was---"
"Is that a shiny ship part over there in those vines?" I ask, pointing.
"I don't see one," Titus says, going to look anyway.
"Is this how you handle him?" Thorn asks.
"Yes, sir," I say.
"It was, thank you Tom," Titus says, extremely happy.
"What do you know," I say, making Quinn snigger.