The Bratva Luna

Recycled O2 wheezes into the hallways through the filtration system that leaves it cold and metal-flavored, the noise joining the halogen whine of the lighting fixtures to create a subtle vibration in every piece of metal through the corridor. Pavel feels his gun shiver in the small of his back, over his tee-shirt and under his jacket, and hustles to get to his destination.

The hallways have always been the worst part of Aptemnaa Base, chilly and quivering and clanky, and because of this, deserted most of the time. A good place for a Krysha to catch a snitch who'd been holed up in a populous microbunk block for weeks.

Pavel's lope floats him through the hall, touching with the barest hint of force to propel him onward.

A brief flash of movement catches his eye as he rounds the corner and he presses a palm against the wall to slow his forward momentum in gradual increments. His hand skates along the cool plastic as he watches the hunching figure limping ahead, awkward and unsure of himself in lunar-G. Pavel lifts his hand from the wall, shifting his weight as he reaches back for his firearm.

Just three quick strides get Pavel in easy shooting range. Three wafting beats of his heart to pull the Viking from the back of his pants. His target twists and veers in a random zigzag down the corridor, tense shoulders drawn to his ears as he tries not to look back. Like a child, pretending that by closing his eyes he can make the monsters go away.

Pavel shakes his head as he lines up his shot.

The gentlest squeeze fires one round, then another, then a third. The bullets take control of his wild flight and he sails a few stunned feet down the hallway before he hits the floor. Pavel strides forward, light and fast as the wind of the vents but far more silent, checking that the poor bastard is dead.

He's not, of course.

“But you're just a kid,” the snitch chokes through blood-foamed lips.

“A kid who put three bullets in you, old man,” Pavel answers, feeling surly. He shouldn't, he knows, but what kind of guy insults the Krysha who just shot him?

Tears pour through the dying man's wrinkles, sloppy and pathetic. “It's too late,” he moans, “I already... contacted Earth.” His watery eyes meet Pavel's from where he lies and his hand twitches limp on the ground as if he wants to lift it. The snitch can't lift his shaking hand, though, not even to cover the wounds like snitches do when they're bleeding. Perhaps one of the bullets hit his spinal cord on the way out.

“Who cares?” Pavel snarls. “Call your people, see if they come. See if they care. They ain't had money or oil to get here in years.” Not in twenty years, not since Pavel was a baby.

The man twitches and whimpers, and as he goes limp the smell of feces overpowers the filters' ability to purify the scent away. Pavel turns away, certain his job is done now. To hell with the Earth-men and their oil. They have no power here in Aptemnaa, here where Pavel knows who to trust and who to listen to and who to shoot, and most important, who's in charge.

Pavel spares a single backward glare at the snitch, a fat sprawled lump of blood and crap vivid in the empty gray hall. He sneers. Pitiful Earth-men.

He stuffs his gun back in his pants and bounds through the halls to his cell, a vast eight cubic meters of space for him and Tanya, complete with a window. She's out teaching til three, so he has plenty of time to hit the baths. He can still smell the dead man, the blood and desperation and bowels. A good scrub removes the scent from his skin, but the memory of the man's dying threat lingers.

After cleaning his gun, he heads to the cafeteria.

“Oy, Pavel,” calls a loud voice as he enters. He turns to see Aleksi and a couple of other Boyeviks. “Did you read the newsfeed yet?”

“I've been busy all morning,” he quips, “I haven't had time for the net.”

“Tsk,” says Aleksi, shaking his shaggy head. “You should make time, kid. It's everywhere.” He grins. “Comm picked up a transmission from Earth. They're coming.”

Pavel feels the blood rush out of his face as the old man's dying warning echoes through his mind yet again. “The Earth-men?”

“Yah,” says Aleksi, his smile hungry. “Looks like they want blood, too.”

With a nervous chuckle, Pavel nods. “Not like they can do much, anyway.” A turf war with the earth-men won't end well for one side, but there's a lot more people down there, he knows. He glances at the buffet line and his mouth goes dry. “I should get on my way.”

“You not planning to eat with us?”

He shakes his head and it makes his ears ring dizzily. “I just came to pick up a bottle. Maybe I'll see you tonight.” He won't, but Aleksi and his cronies take the lie as a promise and shout their boisterous farewells as Pavel's numb feet lead him through the process of buying vodka and returning to his cell alone.

Slumping onto his bed, Pavel stares out of the window and uncaps his bottle, not bothering with a cup. Stars glitter like glowing puncture wounds in the peaceable dark of space, winking out one by one. He grimaces a gulp of vodka down and struggles to his feet in shock.

A large ship crests over the curve of the landscape, a sharp dazzle of bright metal blotting the starlight out until Pavel can see nothing but the Earth-ship looming over Aptemnaa.