Tevun-Krus #16 - Military SF

Dear John - A Short Story by @kwesiwoode

Dear John - A Short Story by @kwesiwoode

Notice: Strong language used herein is a function of Military/Navy culture.

I wake up to a pounding in my head, the after effect of a rather dismal night with a bottle full of spirits and a soul full of sorrows. As I rule, I don't drink; one needs to keep a level head in my line of business. I had a very good reason though.

Over the side of my bed, my feet touch the solid plasteel of my ship's deck. My flagship actually, strictly speaking. The moans of the Golden Hind reverberate through my bones, reminding me of her aches and pains. I'm not worried in the slightest; she's just shamming.

The Hind is my good luck charm. She'll never leave me lonely, unlike someone I know. Oh she'll bitch and moan, like any good whore, but she'll get you through the battle.

I take a sip of the milky fluid the Hind synthesizes to put my brain at rights. Its effects are almost immediate. Too immediate actually. The first couple of words from her message flare up in my mind.

Dear John

This letter has been a long time coming.

You always know things are off to a fucking bad start when your wife starts a message like that.

A lump in sheets behind me moans. My First Officer peaks her head out from underneath said covers. Her usually gamine face is a terrible mess. She massages the sides of her closely shaven scalp and moans again.

Before you judge me, events warranted what happened between her and I. As a rule, I don't sleep with crew. I got drunk with Kemara and we somehow ended up dancing the horizontal tango (mostly horizontal; my memory is a bit hazy but I recall we went at it rather vigorously and in various positions... I think)

I hand her a disposal cup filled with hangover juice and leave the sleeping cubicle to get kitted up. We both know it was nothing serious. I got sad, we got drunk and then we had sex. Now, if our vast array of sensors was right, we would have a battle to survive in less than half and hour.

I stand in the cycling water shower, one of my more archaic luxuries, and try and excise 'her' from my memories. The metallic smell of the water is usually soothing. Not today.

The shower door slowly creaks open. Kemara's footsteps are barely audible as she enters and molds herself against me.

"Get out."

She remains. Silent but firm.

I repeat the command more clearly. I wish we were back at the beginning of the Hive War, when a subordinate wouldn't dare question her superior.

Somehow she manages to hold me even closer.

"Do you really want me to go?" I feel, more than hear, her raspy contralto as it pulses through my back and into my chest.

My father used to say, "Best way to get over one broad is to fuck another." The old man was wildly inappropriate. I've hardly ever taken his advice. Then again, a drowning man will clutch at straws (whatever those are).

I turn around and hold her arms firmly. Her breath catches audibly, a sudden indrawn breath.

I can't help noticing droplets of water slip and slide over her tiny body - liquid yet unhurried, drawing my eyes to follow their journey over the gentle contours of her body. The entire effect transforms her from the human I know into a lovingly painted depiction of some archaic, umber-skinned, water nymph.