Jaym Gates - War Stories

To have Essie standing here wringing her hands in obvious distress made me want to sink into the carpeting.

“Ouma needs changing,” Sandra said.

“ Ja, madam .” Essie shuffled out.

“Happy now?” Sandra huffed at me. “Essie’s very busy with the kids. She probably forgot.”

“That’s not an excuse. Why is Ma being kept in that room? There’s not enough air, and she should be sitting up for at least part of the day. She needs to go outside a little. She’ll get bedsores.” I clenched and unclenched my hands, hating the somehow supercilious expression on my sister–in–law’s face.

“I’ve enough on my plate.”

“Evidently.” I glanced meaningfully at the screen.

“It’s not easy, you know. You have no idea what it’s like living out here, and your brother—”

“You married him,” I said.

Sandra had the temerity to turn from me and unmute the programme. In fact, she dialled the volume higher. The only outward sign of her anger was the way her jaw was working, like she was grinding her teeth.

“Bitch,” I muttered.

There’d be no help from this quarter, and I had little desire to fight with the woman. I might as well go find my brother and have it out with him—lay the entire figurative deck of cards on the table. If I was going to be groundside from here on in, I’d sooner sort out whichever differences existed between us before matters turned uglier.

The late–afternoon heat caught me the moment I stepped outside the house’s air–conditioned confines. Behind the guest cottage, Abjaterskop gleamed like a skull in the westering sun and I had to squint across the yard. So accustomed was I to the mostly sterile atmosphere onboard space–faring vessels and stations that the air, rich as it was in the farmyard smells of dung and livestock, was almost physically overwhelming. I’d get used to it soon enough.

The farm buildings crouched beneath the oaks, and I headed in that direction across the furrow. The old–style aluminium gate clanged shut behind me—like most of structures here, harking back to more than a hundred years ago. Here walls showed sign of intense repair—polymer composite bricks shoring up where old redbrick or even mudbrick walls had collapsed. Rusted corrugated iron warred with newer and obviously scavenged orbital–grade ceramic plating.

Out here, far away from the metropolises, farmers always had a plan.

A rooster and four hens scrubbed in the dirt and watched me warily as I passed them on my way to the kraal. I heard Johan before I saw him, and had already cringed before I rounded the corner.

“What the hell did I tell you about having that latch looked at?” Johan yelled. “Now who’s going to go get the bull out from the cows?”

“Sorry, baas ,” the worker replied.

My brother moved fast and backhanded the guy, who stumbled and landed on his back in an especially mucky part of the kraal. What the hell? I quickened my pace and slipped past the gate.

“You people won’t hear, then you must feel,” my brother growled.

When he made to kick the fallen man—that was when I tripped into overdrive. Pa might’ve been a hard taskmaster, but he never beat up on the farmworkers. Where Johan had picked up those tendencies, I didn’t know.

I grabbed his shoulder and, though I didn’t weigh half what my brother did, I shoved hard so that his foot missed the worker and we both spun to the ground. Time congealed. My brother’s motions slowed, his bellow of rage extending and deepening as my physical modifications flooded my system with stimulants. I knew exactly where to punch—short, sharp jabs—to incapacitate an enemy.

Johan didn’t stand a chance, and I finished with my fingers brushing against his windpipe. Judging by his wild expression, he knew I’d had the power to crush his larynx but I’d halted. Just in time.

Scuttling sounds informed me that the downed farmworker was making himself scarce, but I did not break eye contact with my brother. Despite his skin being so much darker than my generally caramel tone, he’d paled visibly.

“When did you think it acceptable to beat your workers?” I asked him.

He twitched a little before he sucked in a breath. “What gives you the right to interfere?”

This is my farm as much as yours. I bared my teeth at him. “Father never taught us to be like this.”

Straddled as I was across his girth, I was conscious of how much spare flesh he carried, and the way his heart thundered a rapid tattoo within the prison of its ribcage. Even now I could count at least half a dozen ways I could end this man’s life without even a weapon at hand. And I hated myself for it.

“You disgust me,” I sneered.

I disgust myself.

He lay there, watching me as I rose to my feet. Only then did I notice the liquid staining his trousers. My brother had pissed himself.

Because of me.

My shame flushed through me, sudden and hot, and I had to turn away and walk back to the house. I was like a jackal among dogs here. My teeth were sharper, but either I would eventually lash out, or they would tear me to pieces.

Little falcon , Magister Oroyu called me. Little hunting falcon .

There was no escaping what I truly was. That young girl whose gaze had been trained on faraway stars had turned into something feral, dangerous. For her to consider turning her back on the fast strike, the quiet death, and the pursuit—now that was madness.

I am the only one of my unit small enough to worm my way through the air ducts. I am the only one quiet enough to slip unremarked into the very heart of the enemy’s holdout. The rebel doesn’t see the blade I bring to his throat and, when he clutches with ineffectual fingers, his life blood spatters to the composite alloy tiles in a hot fountain. I don’t need guns when I’m the weapon.

How much longer before my brother foolishly goaded me again? Then what? Would I step over that line with an unarmed civilian?

I waited in my room until the household settled for the night. No one called me for supper. I was hungry, but I’d experienced worse privations. Food could wait. My bag was already packed but there was one thing I had to do before I left. The ampoules were shiny blue gemstones in my palm, each with its own capped needle. I only needed six of the soporifics. They were synthetic opiates for the nights when my old injuries pained me more than usual. One or two were sufficient for a grown woman to sleep soundly for six to eight hours. Six would guarantee eternal slumber.

No one stirred when I made my way downstairs. I knew exactly where to step to avoid the squeaky stairs. The door to Ma’s room stood ajar, and the ammonia stench was even stronger than it had been this afternoon. Essie never did get round to bathing her, and now was not the time to berate myself for not checking up on her.

My anger flexed within me but I tamped it down. Eventually Johan and Sandra’s study in neglect would turn around and bite them, but I wouldn’t be that dog. Ma, on the other hand…

She’d somehow rucked the linen up so that she was hunched on the plastic mattress protector. The sheet that should have covered her was piss–stained and crumpled to one side. Her eyes shone in the moonlight filtered through the gauze curtains. Her gaze was trained on me but I couldn’t be sure whether she saw me.

“Ma, I’ve come to take you home.”