Stars of Blood and Glory by Joe Vasicek Page A

thousand credits, but
that wasn’t a problem—she jammed another datachip into the kiosk
and hit PAY.
    A message flashed onto the
screen: P lease insert passport.
    “ Come on,” she muttered, fumbling
through her pockets. She thought she heard voices out in the
terminal.
    She took the first passport that
came to her hand and jammed it into one of the kiosk slots at
random. The screen went blank for a moment or two, and then to her
relief the airlock door hissed open. Enjoy your ride, the screen flashed as she hastily
recovered her datachips. Moments later, she was inside.
    That was a close one, she thought,
collapsing on one of the couches that ringed the circular room.
Silk drapes hung from the ceiling, while the adjustable windows
rose to the top of the domed ceiling, just like a miniature version
of one of the island-cities of her homeworld. She lay back on the
couch and took a deep breath of the perfumed air.
    At the head of the room, a wall screen
flashed on, revealing a map of the local sector with its planet and
moons. STAND BY FOR LAUNCH, said a message beneath the screen, and
the floor trembled ever so slightly as the automated shuttlecraft
undocked. Overhead, the view of the station and planet spun, but
she hardly felt a thing.
    ESTIMATED TIME TO STATION 2L6a: 20.5
HOURS.
    “ Dammit,” she said aloud, quickly
covering her mouth as she caught herself. She glanced around her,
then giggled a little as she realized she was alone.
    “ Go fuck yourself, bitch!” she
screamed, just because she could. She opened her mouth to swear
again, but fell to the floor in a fit of hysterical giggles. She
had no idea where she was or where she was going, or even what
she’d do once she got there, but none of that was going to keep her
from enjoying her newfound freedom.
     
    * * * * *
     
    Roman pressed his metal
prosthetic hand to the access panel on the wall and held it there.
It took a second, but the door to the Tajji Flame’s officer mess slid open with a low
groan. The sound was not unlike the creaking in his joints when
several weeks had passed without a checkup.
    He ducked his head as he stepped through the
narrow doorway. Corporal Tajjashvili sat alone on the bench at the
far side of the room. A line of smoke rose from the cigarette in
his hand, the heat signature registering as a ball of dull red
light to Roman’s prosthetic eye. He switched to the visible
spectrum, and the digital input resolved with his natural sight to
give him a more accurate sense of depth perception. Not that it
made much of a difference.
    The corporal turned his balding head and
nodded. “Greetings,” he said in the old Tajji dialect, using a word
that roughly translated to “victory.” From the wry smile on the old
man’s face, it was clear that the irony wasn’t lost on him.
    “ Cheers,” Roman answered, walking
over to the bench in a few short strides. “Mind if I join
you?”
    Zura grunted and gestured to his right. “Not
at all, friend. Have a seat.”
    Roman eased his heavy cyborg body onto the
bench. It sank a little under his weight, but that was normal.
    “ Care for a drink?” said Zura,
passing a bottle of vodka across the age-worn metal tabletop. Roman
took a glass from the table behind them and filled it halfway. Zura
shook his head and, taking the bottle from Roman’s prosthetic hand,
filled it up to the brim before pouring himself another.
    “ Don’t hold back, friend,” he
said, lifting his glass. “For old men like us, it’s as good as
medicine.”
    “ Yeah,” said Roman. “Even with
body falling apart, it is always memories that go last.”
    “ And only the ones you’d rather
forget.”
    “ Indeed.”
    Roman threw back his head and emptied his
glass. The alcohol burned as it went down his throat, settling in
his stomach like liquid fire. Zura tapped his cigarette over the
ashtray and refilled their glasses.
    “ That young lieutenant,” said
Zura. “To hear him speak, you would think it was still