other direction. “So when’s this party of yours?”
“Tonight.” Vidal stirred via sheer willpower. “After Shapiro’s briefing, in Ernst’s quarters.”
Rabelais and Queneau had been permanently discharged from the Infirmary and assigned accommodations among the Wastrel ’s senior staff. Vidal was still technically an Infirmary resident, but he was almost never there. Most of the time Bill Grant had to track him down, bring the next round of medication to him, since Vidal was busy.
He was either in the gym or the Ops room, taking a break here in the crew lounge, or aft and down three decks, in Hangar 5. The modest sized private hangar had been empty until he, Queneau and Rabelais commandeered it, and stores soon provided the materials they requisitioned. They had worked for a week with a squad of drones, to build the oddest flight simulator Marin had ever seen; and they had been testing it for several days now.
“I’m wasting time,” Vidal groaned, pushing himself up to his feet, where he swayed only a little.
“You’re supposed to be resting,” Travers argued. “Go lie down, before you fall down.”
“I’ve rested enough.” Vidal gave the tunic an angry tug and thrust both hands into the pockets of the silk slacks. “You have no bloody idea, Neil, have you?” He nodded at Marin. “Ask your better half.”
The challenge was barbed but not unexpected. Travers cocked his head at Marin, waiting. Marin certainly understood everything Vidal had not said, but putting it into words Travers could understand was another matter.
He puffed out his cheeks, sifted through his memories and chose his words with great care. “We take our health for granted till we lose it. I’m guessing Mick was rarely below par before Elarne.” He arched a brow at Vidal, who answered with a fatalistic nod. “Youths don’t appreciate vitality – it’s like the air they breathe, cash sluicing through the hands of a spoiled kid, say, Trick Shackleton, who wouldn’t know a budget if it punched him in the nose.
“Then … all gone. Weeks blur away, nothing to show for them. You squint at a mirror … looking older. You hear the clock ticking, consciously watch life wasting.” He took a deep breath, holding the past at arm’s length by force, lest it get a talon onto him. “We question the value of anything we ever did, fret about ever doing anything meaningful, try to fathom what we want. Need .
“The bottom line never changes. ‘Gods, give me one day without pain.’ Not, ‘I wanna run the hundred in nine, dance and shag all night, get rich and famous.’ Just ‘let me live without pain, move the way I used to. Walk without the stumble that makes strangers think I’m drunk.’ For a time you drift, too tired to fight … cry when no one’s looking, scorn your own self-pity. Some guys lose it – make it through the disaster, then check out on a triple-dose. Bill could tell you stories.
“Mick and me –? Survivors.” Marin frowned at Vidal. The shorn head nodded slowly, but Mick would not look up at him and Marin went on, knowing every syllable was a thorn in Vidal’s flesh. “One day we feel a lick of energy, the strength to walk across a room, open a door. The sun’s hot on your back, the wind’s in your face … now, it hits us hardest. We remember who we were, what we were, before. Survivors start to brawl.”
He gestured at Vidal, who stood with hands buried in pockets, glaring at the deck as if he bore it a personal grudge. “We fight with what we have. Bursts of strength come and go like sprites. Moments of hope … hours of despair, when willpower and sweat get us through before pain and exhaustion bury us again. You think you’ll never dig out of the hole. Intellectually, you know you’re recovering but you slide back, start again almost from scratch, over and over. The effort drains you till you almost quit. Stubbornness – or maybe masochism! – force you up one more time, knowing
“Tonight.” Vidal stirred via sheer willpower. “After Shapiro’s briefing, in Ernst’s quarters.”
Rabelais and Queneau had been permanently discharged from the Infirmary and assigned accommodations among the Wastrel ’s senior staff. Vidal was still technically an Infirmary resident, but he was almost never there. Most of the time Bill Grant had to track him down, bring the next round of medication to him, since Vidal was busy.
He was either in the gym or the Ops room, taking a break here in the crew lounge, or aft and down three decks, in Hangar 5. The modest sized private hangar had been empty until he, Queneau and Rabelais commandeered it, and stores soon provided the materials they requisitioned. They had worked for a week with a squad of drones, to build the oddest flight simulator Marin had ever seen; and they had been testing it for several days now.
“I’m wasting time,” Vidal groaned, pushing himself up to his feet, where he swayed only a little.
“You’re supposed to be resting,” Travers argued. “Go lie down, before you fall down.”
“I’ve rested enough.” Vidal gave the tunic an angry tug and thrust both hands into the pockets of the silk slacks. “You have no bloody idea, Neil, have you?” He nodded at Marin. “Ask your better half.”
The challenge was barbed but not unexpected. Travers cocked his head at Marin, waiting. Marin certainly understood everything Vidal had not said, but putting it into words Travers could understand was another matter.
He puffed out his cheeks, sifted through his memories and chose his words with great care. “We take our health for granted till we lose it. I’m guessing Mick was rarely below par before Elarne.” He arched a brow at Vidal, who answered with a fatalistic nod. “Youths don’t appreciate vitality – it’s like the air they breathe, cash sluicing through the hands of a spoiled kid, say, Trick Shackleton, who wouldn’t know a budget if it punched him in the nose.
“Then … all gone. Weeks blur away, nothing to show for them. You squint at a mirror … looking older. You hear the clock ticking, consciously watch life wasting.” He took a deep breath, holding the past at arm’s length by force, lest it get a talon onto him. “We question the value of anything we ever did, fret about ever doing anything meaningful, try to fathom what we want. Need .
“The bottom line never changes. ‘Gods, give me one day without pain.’ Not, ‘I wanna run the hundred in nine, dance and shag all night, get rich and famous.’ Just ‘let me live without pain, move the way I used to. Walk without the stumble that makes strangers think I’m drunk.’ For a time you drift, too tired to fight … cry when no one’s looking, scorn your own self-pity. Some guys lose it – make it through the disaster, then check out on a triple-dose. Bill could tell you stories.
“Mick and me –? Survivors.” Marin frowned at Vidal. The shorn head nodded slowly, but Mick would not look up at him and Marin went on, knowing every syllable was a thorn in Vidal’s flesh. “One day we feel a lick of energy, the strength to walk across a room, open a door. The sun’s hot on your back, the wind’s in your face … now, it hits us hardest. We remember who we were, what we were, before. Survivors start to brawl.”
He gestured at Vidal, who stood with hands buried in pockets, glaring at the deck as if he bore it a personal grudge. “We fight with what we have. Bursts of strength come and go like sprites. Moments of hope … hours of despair, when willpower and sweat get us through before pain and exhaustion bury us again. You think you’ll never dig out of the hole. Intellectually, you know you’re recovering but you slide back, start again almost from scratch, over and over. The effort drains you till you almost quit. Stubbornness – or maybe masochism! – force you up one more time, knowing
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