“Defeat, when it came, was like a pall of smoke hanging over our heads, lowering our horizons,” Yeltsin said, one boot on the boxwood table in the centre of the otherwise empty room. He lit a cigarette and took a deep draught, the livid scar near his mouth pinching into a white line as he inhaled. “That’s why we did the things we did. You would too.”
“You think we are not so different?” Major Rostowski said.
“Yeah. We are,” Yeltsin insisted. He lowered his foot, leaned forward, and drew a circle with his finger in the dust on the tabletop. “The Zjheeks had us surrounded. It would have been a turkey shoot.”
“How many?” Rostowski demanded. “How many, corporal?”
“I dunno, major,” Yeltsin sat back in his chair and took another long drag on his cigarette. “Perhaps twenty-five.”
“Then what happened?”
“One of the Zjheeks came down the slope,” Yeltsin said. “It was carrying one of those translator boxes.”
“What did it say?”
“It told us to take our clothes off and throw them in a pile with our weapons.”
The major took up his gaze. “And?”
“Tom, Private Allen, refused and started shouting.” Yeltsin said. “So, they lasered him. Clean through the forehead. No warning. Just blam, and he was gone.”
“So, what did you do?”
“The sensible thing,” Yeltsin replied. “I stripped.”
“Then what happened?”
“The Zjheek carrying the translator box climbs up the slope and throws his sword into the ground about three feet from me,” Yeltsin spread his hands. “Then all the rest do the same. He looks at me and says, only one gets out. So, I dived for his sword.”
“Then you started fighting?”
“Yeah, no-one hesitated. We’d heard about these gladiator contests. It’s kill or be killed,” Yeltsin said. He shrugged and stubbed out his cigarette on the table.
“Your comrades?”
“Yeah,” Yeltsin said. “Captain Wright was the last. He came at me like a banshee.”
“But you overpowered and killed him? Then what?”
“The Zjheeks started that rattling noise, like they were applauding,” Yeltsin said. “And then they just left.”
“Do you know anything about Captain Wright? The man you killed?”
“Nothing really,” Yeltsin admitted. “Like, he was a good commander, and there were rumours about his preferences, if you know what I mean. He didn’t like girls. But that was okay with me.”
Rostowski stood and fixed Yeltsin with a glare. He said, “Captain Paul Wright was born in Tucksville, Ohio, in 2234. He attended Tucksville High, where he graduated with a football scholarship to Ohio State University. After studying law and economics, he graduated summa cum laude. When hostilities broke out with the Zjheeks, he joined the Terran Marines and was three weeks away from an honourable discharge when he was captured and killed. We were to be married when we returned to Earth.”
“Look,” Yeltsin stammered. “I had no choice, man. It was me or him.”
“It should have been him,” Rostowski said quietly, and drew his sidearm.
