Yazov Igorovich leaned his head against the inner hull of the prison transport submarine, listening to the mechanical hums and clanks and groans of the ancient machinery that separated him from enough undersea pressure to turn every atom of his body into a fine paste. He kept his eyes most of the way closed, watching the uniformed guard sitting on the bench opposite him through his lashes. They didn't speak. Yazov had developed a reputation for not speaking during the three years of his sentence.
The singular red bulb in the belly of the submarine flickered, sad and sickly. The guard occasionally touched his fingertips to the butt of his sidearm (for reassurance, for a reminder of the status of his position, for whatever), although he would never use it if he was sane; a ricochet and ensuing hull breach in here would mean the deaths of all of the submarine's occupants.
Yazov's eyes slowly slid across the interior of the sub, taking in the metal benches with their chipped paint, the dirt and rust silently accumulating in the corners, and the peeling speaker embedded in the wall next to the locked door leading to the bridge. From that speaker issued the nameless pilot's voice as she made periodic announcements regarding their depth level. The ascent from the deep sea prison toward the Arkhipov Submarine Port1 in Lower Novograd was slow—to prevent the easing of pressure from fucking up all of their joints and brains—and every meter of their approach had to be cataloged as various security clearances were verified and accepted by the port authorities.
Yazov, the only real passenger aboard the submarine, could do nothing but wait. His prosthetic arm had been disabled with an EMP cuff, and all of the phantom nerves embedded in his missing limb were telling him that he was digging his fingernails into his palm hard enough to draw blood. The pain was constant and irritating, and there was nothing to take Yazov's mind off of it except the flickering of the light and the fidgeting of the guard… and the announcements, of course.
1300 meters and rising,
the pilot said, her voice heavily distorted by the pops and crackles of the ancient intercom system. She sounded bored—if he hadn't been weighed down by the EMP cuff as well as ankle and wrist restraints, Yazov might have sympathized.
Time passed. Yazov wasn't sure how much.
1250 meters and rising,
the pilot informed them.
The guard farted as surreptitiously as possible. Yazov made no sign that he had noticed—the guard could have dropped dead of a brain aneurysm and Yazov wouldn't have cared—and continued staring off into the middle distance. The bulb continued to flicker. The rust and filth continued their silent, glacially-paced devouring of the submarine. Beyond the hull, the currents of Europa's nightmarishly deep and cold ocean danced to and fro, carrying alien flora and fauna every which way. Somewhere out there were leviathans that could snap this little sub in half without even blinking an eye—an eye the size of Yazov's entire torso, by the way—but they were, for now, far away and of no concern.
For now.
1200 meters and rising.
Yazov closed his eyes the rest of the way. One of the skills you could learn in prison (if you survived long enough) was how to sleep in uncomfortable positions, but his mind refused to slow down long enough to let him truly rest. He flexed the fingers of his remaining flesh-and-blood hand, then cracked the knuckles.
The remainder of the ascent was a strange, almost dreamlike purgatory of Yazov waiting, his expression and general body language an aloof mask of disinterest toward his surroundings and situation. The only things that changed were the numbers being announced over the shitty intercom—until, at long last, they reached Arkhipov Submarine Port. There was more waiting here as the pilot's documentation was checked, a berth was found, and they surfaced. Then… Footsteps thudding against the hull. A hatch clanging open. New voices. A new squad of guards approached him several moments later, the higher-ranking one bearing a key flash.
Welcome back to civilization, Yazov Igorovich,
this one said as he pressed his flash against the lockpads of the restraints. Yazov felt them loosen a moment later, and let the wrist and ankle restraints fall to the floor with a clatter—someone else could pick them up and put them away. He rolled his shoulders to loosen them, then used his flesh-and-blood hand to hold up the forearm of his prosthetic.
The guard said nothing for a moment, taking in the expanse of painted stainless steel plating and cunningly jointed metal that formed the replacement for the limb Yazov had lost in childhood. His eyes lingered on what had once been wickedly curving tiger claws protruding from the fingertips before the prison guards had broken and crushed them—to prevent violence and injury among the prisoners
they had said at the time, but it had really been to render him defenseless—before he pressed the flash against the lockpad of the EMP cuff. The small electro-magnetic field that turned the prosthetic limp and inert (and also, coincidentally, made the point of attachment in his upper arm ache like a motherfucker) abruptly ended.
Yazov couldn't suppress a grunt of genuine surprise as the prosthetic suddenly began functioning again. His metal fingers spasmed and shook after three years of complete disuse, and the elbow joint felt fragile when he flexed it experimentally. He would need to recondition himself to using the prosthetic again in order to regain his coordination, as well as find a technician to do some serious maintenance—if there wasn't any degradation of at least the internal wiring, then God might actually be real on this godless moon.
Did you hear me, Yazov Igorovich?
the chatty guard asked. I said 'welcome back to civilization.'
Yazov just looked at him.
He doesn't talk to respectable people,
the guard who had accompanied him from the undersea prison said. He's a weird little rat-fucker.
Yazov's gaze flickered momentarily to this uniformed shitsack, but he held his silence.
The guard who had undid Yazov's restraints sighed through his nose in annoyance. Well, hopefully you've learned something from your time below, Yazov Igorovich.
Unlikely,
the other guard muttered.
I hope I won't see you again,
the chatty guard continued, offering Yazov a meaningful look.
Yazov stared through him as though he wasn't even there. After a moment, the chatty guardsman shook his head in annoyance and gestured towards the hatchway. You're free to disembark,
he said.
Yazov did so, blinking owlishly at the sudden change to the yellow electric light of the port as he exited the submarine. The port smelled of brine and diesel, but after three years of stale, recycled prison air the odor was like ambrosia. He breathed deep, and something in his shoulders relaxed minutely after three years of unrelenting tension. Armed and helmeted guards watched him as he made his way over to the receiving area, his boots thumping against the flaking paint of the metal floor.
Hey! Yaza!
called a voice he hadn't heard in three years.
A grin broke through the disaffected mask on Yazov's face as he turned towards the speaker. Alexei smiled back at him, leaning his elbows on the metal railing that marked the boundary between the submarine dockyard and the warren of transport tunnels that snaked their way through Novograd. The Sakha looked good: as muscled and heavyset as ever, and his white button-up shirt seemed to glow against the deep tan of his skin. His dark eyes, slanted at the corners with epicanthic folds, were alight with lively intelligence and good humor behind his ever-present aviator sunglasses. The sight of him made a painful knot in Yazov's heart ease.
Alexei gave him a similar up and down look as Yazov approached the barrier. Did they feed you at all in there?
he demanded. You're too thin.
Yazov shrugged. They fed me when they felt like it.
Alexei tsk'd in disapproval and shook his head. Let's get you something to eat on the way then, eh?
he said, and turned away from the barrier. He beckoned, and Yazov vaulted over the railing to follow. His only acknowledgement of a guard's shouted protest was to force the middle finger of his metal hand into an upright position and make a rude gesture with it over his shoulder.
Alexei chuckled as they followed the signs toward the parking garage. The soft, rasping noise of his enjoyment was a balm against the wound of three years' worth of imprisonment, and Yazov jogged a few steps to walk beside the taller man. He found himself watching Alexei out of the corner of his eye as they kept pace toward the vehicle, re-memorizing the planes and angles of his face, the laugh-lines at the corners of his eyes, the stubble that always grew back too quickly after a shave. Yazov sidled a little bit closer, letting their elbows bump together and breathing in the smell of mediocre cologne and cheap cigarettes that enshrouded Alexei. He smelled like home.
Yazov finally, finally felt as though he were free.
Don't break your face with that smile there,
Alexei murmured.
Fuck you,
Yazov said fondly, and Alexei slung an arm around his shoulders with a laugh that echoed down the concrete tunnel after their footsteps.
Wait,
Yazov said a moment later. Alexei stopped and looked at him. Where are you taking me?
Alexei's brow furrowed. To the vehicle?
No, I mean after that. You said we would get food 'on the way' so… on the way to where?
Sergei wanted to talk to you in his office once you're all cleaned up and presentable.
Yazov squinted uneasily. Why?
Alexei shrugged. I truly don't know what he's got planned for you—but I doubt it's a punishment of any kind. He seemed happy and eager to see you.
They reached the vehicle—a black, nondescript Lada2 that wouldn't garner a second glance from passing police cruisers—and Alexei opened the front passenger door with a theatrical flourish that made Yazov roll his eyes as he got inside. Alexei claimed the driver's seat a moment later and started the engine by pressing the face of his wristwatch to the lockpad on the dashboard.
So, what are you in the mood for for your first meal as a free man?
Alexei asked.
catch up
1 Vasily Arkhipov was an IRL Soviet naval commander who, in 1962, prevented the launch of nuclear torpedoes at U.S. ships during a crucial juncture of the Cuban Missile Crisis. The order to fire the torpedoes (which Arkhipov chose to disobey) was actually a miscommunication, and Arkhipov's decision ensured that the Cold War didn't turn hot and result in widespread nuclear warfare and (by extension) a horrifically unquantifiable loss of life. You can read more about him on Wikipedia.
2 In the real world, Lada is a major car manufacturer in Eastern Europe. The company began producing vehicles in 1970 and continues to do so into the present day.