I am serialising my dystopian/retro-futuristic sci-fi story here. Here is the eighth chapter, titled “The Captain’s Wife”.
All chapters can be found here.
I will be adding a new chapter every Friday (when I don’t forget, sorry!).
Chapter 08 – The Captain’s Wife
They left their unit at the officers’ habitat and took a brightly polished tuk-tuk to the officers’ club. The machine was driven by a private in a smart uniform, who saluted the captain and his wife and held the door for them.
They drove through a park with trees, transported to the planet decades ago, and a pond where genetically engineered ducks swam. Mothers and their children, dressed in black shirts and shorts, watched and threw handfuls of seeds for the birds to eat.
She sat and smirked, looking quite pleased with herself as they zipped along toward the officer’s club. The captain was smoking a cigar, looking stiff and important.
At the club, the tuk-tuk’s door was opened by a smartly dressed cadet. More cadets stood in a neat line, supervised by a corporal.
“Ten-shun!” announced the corporal as the captain emerged, and the line of cadets snapped to attention.
The captain lazily saluted, his wife holding his other arm, the cigar gripped between his teeth, and they entered the club where another cadet was holding the door for them.
“Good evening, Captain, Ma’am,” said a moustachioed sergeant, looking immaculate in dress uniform.
“Ahh, Zandar,” said the captain, looking past him into the dining room, taking off his cap and handing it to the sergeant.
Sergeant Zander was the manager of the officers’ club.
“Who are we dining with?”
“I have you seated with Lieutenant Kovacs and his wife,” said the serjeant.
The captain frowned.
“Who is the Colonel dining with?”
“A Captain Smith, sir. From Secpol, I believe. The Colonel gave instructions not to be disturbed.”
The captain frowned again.
“Very well,” he said, and the sergeant bowed his head, spun, and gracefully walked into the dining room, followed by the captain and his wife.
As they walked through, the captain’s wife affected her serene veneer, smiling and waving at people she knew—the wives of other officers. Since the news of getting a cat had been announced, she had felt a new vigour in her life. She suddenly felt as though there was some brightness on the horizon. A feeling that things for her were starting to turn around.
She was seated and kissed Mrs Kovacs once on each cheek as Lieutenant Kovacs stood, and shook her husband’s hand. When they were all seated, waiters, dressed in starched white tunics, filled glasses with wine and water.
Sergeant Zandar handed them all menus.
“Soup of the day is potato and leek,” he announced and bowed, spinning and elegantly moving back through the dining room.
“Cheers!” said Kovacs, holding his glass.
The others joined him in a cheer, sipped their wine, and then they all studied the menu.
She had grown up coming to this club. She had her birthday parties here, played tennis here, and ate with her father, mother, and brother here. It was the centre of her social existence. Her father was a Milpol captain in the Kantary liaison division.
Her father was Milpol, and her older brother was Milpol, and she had been selected as a teenager to become a domestic. She was told that when she was 18, she would be married to a Milpol man and would have children, who would then go on to become Milpol or domestics themselves.
So when she was 18, she married a second lieutenant, a few years older than her, and moved into a junior officers’ unit. He worked out at the quarry, and she did her duty, giving birth to a son who she imagined would go on to become a Milpol man, like his father, uncles, and grandfathers.
But the boy, at age 8, was diagnosed with leukaemia, and was enthanised.
“What do you fancy?” said Mrs Kovacs, studying her small menu.
“Oh,” she said, suddenly back from her thoughts.
She quickly scanned the menu.
“The soup, and then the fish,” she said, putting the menu down.
“Me too,” said Mrs Kovacs, still studying the menu.
“Pretty exciting, hey, Captain!” said Kovacs, lighting a cigarette and leaning into where the captain sat. “What’s with the sudden full drill tomorrow?”
The captain studied the menu, pretending not to have heard Kovacs.
There were only five choices on the menu. The starters were soup of the day or tinned fruit cocktail. The main courses were tinned mutton pie with mint gravy and powdered potatoes, or engineered salmon and rice. The only dessert option was, as always, fruitcake.
“Do you know what all this hullabaloo is about, sir?” probed Kovacs further, still leaning close.
The captain’s eyes rose from the menu to meet the lieutenant.
“I do,” he said.
Kovacs smiled, eager to hear the inside scoop on all the sudden Milpol activity.
The captain leaned closer and spoke in a hushed tone.
“Social uprising drills, Lieutenant.”
Kovacs’ face remained poised for juicy news for a moment, and then stiffened, and he straightened up, and puffed his cigarette. He glanced at Mrs Kovacs, who gave him a stern look.
“Yes, absolutely. Just as I thought, drills!” he said, suddenly having unnerved himself at the thought he might be labelled a gossip.
The waiter appeared with a notepad.
“Soup and pie,” said the captain.
“Soup and fish,” said his wife.
“Soup and pie,” said Kovacs.
“Soup and fish,” said Mrs Kovacs.
“Apologies, Captain, sir,” said the waiter.”We only have three soups left.”
“Not to worry. Kovacs, you will have the fruit salad,” said the captain with finality, and the waiter scribbled this down, bowed, clicking his heels together, and retreated. Kovacs puffed his cigarette, looking momentarily glum at not having any soup.
After the death of the boy, she and her husband didn’t make love for three years, and hardly spoke. She was heartbroken by the loss of her child and the dreams she had for him that had been snatched away.
She was visited by a physician who gave her pills to “cheer her up”, and she was told she must have another child, or her role as a domestic would be placed in jeopardy. And so she took the pills, and drank brandy, and she became pregnant again at the aged of 30, and gave birth to Sylvia.
And Sylvia became the apple of her eye, and the new conduit for all of her dreams and fears.
“Is Sylvia excited about going to Terra?” said Mrs Kovacs.
“Yes,” she said, suddenly looking and feeling smug again.
“Our little Benjamin will be starting at the school next cycle,” said Mrs Kovacs.
“Sylvia graduated at the top of her class in the gifted program at the school,” she shot back.
Since the news of the cat and her husband’s impending promotion, she couldn’t stand the thought of anyone else having good news or fortune.
When the time came, she wanted to bask in the limelight as people at the club, over a game of cards, would ask about when the cat would arrive. Had she thought of names? What type is it? Would they be able to visit to see the cat? Etcetera, etcetera.
She desperately wanted to announce that they were getting a cat, a Russian Blue cat.
She desperately wanted to see the look of envy in Mrs Kovacs’ eyes. She wanted to be superior to her, to loom over her. When her husband was promoted to Major, she wouldn’t have to eat with a lieutenant and his wife.
They would eat with the other majors, or the colonel, or visiting Kantary executives, but not a lieutenant.
The soup arrived for three of them. It was watery and bland. Kovacs’ fruit salad was meagre, and consisted mostly of syrup and a few small chunks of pear. The four of them took their spoons and slurped back a mouthful.
Her husband was promoted to full lieutenant and placed in charge of a constabulary inside the Ghetto. He stayed away sometimes overnight, and she noticed changes in him.
She found books of matches in his coat pocket from places with strange names like “The Golden Harem” or “Rascal’s Nude Cabaret”.
She noticed a faint perfume smell sometimes on his jacket.
She had asked him what he did in the Ghetto overnight, and he explained his nights away as investigating subversives.
She never said anything. She never challenged him or asked questions. She just pretended it wasn’t happening. He went to work and came back smelling of whores, because he was simply investigating subversives.
“Not bad,” said the captain, wiping some soup from his chin that had dribbled from his lips.
“I hope the pie has a bit more meat than last time,” said Kovacs, covering his moaning with a jolly tone, so that he would be labelled a complainer. He glanced at Mrs Kovacs, who gave him a stern look.
The waiter cleared the plates.
“How are things in your section?” enquired the Captain of Kovacs.
“My section?” replied Kovacs nervously. “There aren’t any problems in my section. What have you heard?”
“I didn’t say there were any problems,” said the Captain, mildly.
“Oh,” said Kavocs, who glanced at his wife, who scowled back. “Very quiet. No issues to report. Business as usual,” he continued, suddenly seeming blaise.
“I have always said, give an Undesirable a bottle of cheap booze, a packet of cigarettes, and a ration of protein loaf at the end of their shift at the quarry, and he or she will be happy, content, and no trouble at all.”
“Yes, I have said similar myself,” said Kovacs, nodding and trying to sound sage.
“They are a simple people who demand a simple life,” continued the Captain, attempting to sound philosophical, and then abruptly changed the subject. “I took Sylvia out to the hunting grounds yesterday.”
“Jolly good,” said Kovacs excitedly. “Were the bugs up?”
“Rather,” said the Captain. “Sylvia bagged twenty, and I bagged a dozen.”
“Splendid,” said Mrs Kovacs.
The main course was served. The ladies had an oversteamed lump of engineered salmon perched on a small bed of plain white rice, doused in a congealed parsley sauce.
The mutton pies were steamed in their tin and turned out onto a plate with a dollop of powdered potatoes. The pie was covered with a shiny brown sauce.
“Enjoy!” announced Sergeant Zandar, reappearing at the table, his face fixed with a supercilious grin.
They began to eat.
Her husband had been promoted to section security head and captain, responsible for a large section of the Ghetto. He had continued his nightly investigation of subversives and came home smelling of brandy and whores.
Sylvia grew older and became a star student, winning rosettes at the Milpol school swimming galas, coming first in rifleman competitions, and generally excelling at everything.
But now she was going. She was going to the Space Directorate’s Officers Academy on Terra as a cadet. She was heartbroken and thrilled at the same time.
But then the news of the cat came. The cat suddenly gave her a reason to be. A reason to exist. She would raise the cat, feed it and brush it, and enter it in competitions at the officers’ club.
And with his promotion, he will be out of the Ghetto and working at the space port, away from the whores.
But it was no longer ‘whores’ – it was ‘whore’. Singular.
She had smelled her on his jacket and on his laundry. It seemed that about a year ago, the faint smells of the different whores had been replaced by a distinct and faint, floral, musky smell of The Whore.
She had imagined what The Whore looked like. She imagined her as sluttonous and brassy, living in some filthy hovel with a sagging, dirty mattress.
She imagined The Whore as a drug user and an alcoholic, lying around naked, living a subversive lifestyle. She imagined The Whore naked with her husband, subverting him.
But now that was all ending. He was going to the spaceport, leaving the Ghetto and the subversives behind; she was getting a cat; Sylvia had graduated at the top of her class; and all her friends would be so jealous of the cat!
“The fish is lovely,” she announced, smiling, and feeling so cheerful.
“Yes,” said Mrs Kovacs. “Very delicate.”
“The pie’s not bad,” said Mr Kovacs, his mouth half full and chewing.
“The gravy is not minted,” complained the captain. “I will be having a word with Zandar about this.”
“Yes, that’s what I meant. The pie is good, but the gravy is not minted,” added Kovacs, suddenly concerned that he would be labelled as uncultured. He glanced at Mrs Kovacs, who gave him a stern look.
They continued eating.
She imagined their bigger unit, with two housekeepers. She knew that Edith didn’t have many years left before her retirement and euthanasia, and she was looking forward to breaking in two new helpers and conditioning them to her exacting standards.
But it was the cat her mind returned to again and again. She had touched a cat when she was a young girl. She had a play date at a friend’s house when she was young. Her friend’s father was a major in the maintenance corps, and they had a beautiful Siamese cat named Phoebe.
The animal with its curious eyes and long, elegant legs had come to see what they were doing. She had looked wide-eyed as it came toward them, sniffing and circling where they played. Its tail coiling and uncoiling rhythmically.
She had held out a hand as the animal had walked past her, and her fingers ran through its soft, short hair, and then it skittishly dashed away, and it was gone.
She had drawn hundreds of pictures of the cat and taped them to the wall of her small room in her parents’ unit.
She remembered going to the club for the pet competitions and standing behind the velvet rope, staring at the fluffy and short-haired cats sitting on cushions.
She wanted to be one of the judges who were allowed on the other side of the rope and could touch and handle the animals.
And now she was going to have a cat of her own. A Russian Blue cat that could live up to 35 years, that she could feed and brush, and it would sit on her lap, purring, as she watched soap operas and drank coffee, and everyone would be jealous.
“Captain,” came a voice, and Sergeant Zandar had reappeared.
“Ahh, Zandar!” said the captain, turning. “The gravy is not minted!”
“Captain, the Colonel is requesting you join him and Captain Smith, alone.”
“He is…?” said the captain.
“Yes, sir,” said Zandar.
The captain wiped gravy from his chin and stood, straightening his jacket and puffing out his chest.
“If you will excuse me, My Dear, Mrs Kovacs, Lieutenant. Important business to attend to,” he said, tapping the side of his nose.
Kovacs leapt to his feet.
“Yes. Of course, sir,” he said, eagerly. “Anything I can help with, sir?”
“I don’t think so, Kovacs,” said the captain, and he turned and left.
Kovacs glanced at his wife, who gave him a stern look.
She ordered a slice of fruit cake and a coffee.
She thought about the luncheon tomorrow at the Kantary offices. She had never left the officers’ habitat before, having lived her entire life within a 100-hectare area.
She thought of the dress she had to wear, and the buffet with exotic foods she had heard rumoured, that only Kantary executives could get their hands on.
And then she thought of Sylvia, heading to Terra, on the far side of the galaxy. She had watched documentaries about Terra, trying to get a sense of what her gifted daughter would be experiencing, and she was filled with excitement for her.
These thoughts buoyed her, and she felt an enormous sense of achievement, smiling smugly. Thinking about the bigger unit, her new domestic servants to break in, never smelling the faint, sweet, musky smell of The Whore again, and above all else, the cat.