Learning Curve
Excerpt from the private journal of Viktoria Tikhonova
Thursday, 01 Feb 2525
Trans-U class, Delilah
Somewhere in the Black
Near Persephone
17:45 hrs, ship's time
I drank the beer Rachel McAllister gave me and tried not to grimace at the taste. Never the best of drinkers at the best of times, times weren't the best and I'm not that good a drinker. Yet, today's events had convinced me to discover whatever solace others found in alcohol.
Whatever they were looking for, it wasn't a pleasant taste. I nearly spit out my first sip on the deck. It was that vile. Delilah, however, had had enough damage done to her. I didn't want to inflict any more. I swallowed the beer and kept on drinking until it was gone.
I can't verify if wisdom can be found at the bottom of a wine bottle, but I can say with utmost conviction that one can find numbness at the bottom of a beer can. Maybe that was the goal in drinking: numbing the sharp edges of the day until they no longer hurt so much… or perhaps until you didn't mind so much that they hurt.
I should also note here that alcohol has a way of impairing your judgment, because I asked for and got another can of the stuff down me. By the time I finished the second can, my head was feeling light enough to face everything without panic. In truth, I had cause for panic.
I killed someone today.
I'd never done anything so much as jaywalk or steal a paperclip. Until today, Sonia's gun had lain in the bottom of my bag like a forgotten pack of gum. After all, what did I know about guns? Nothing, really, save which end to hold. I didn't even want it but had taken it to save her worry. What had she said to me that night?
If someone tries to kill you, you try and kill them right back.
At the time, I thought she was exaggerating. Who would try to kill me? Chances were more likely I'd be taken for the sex trade, as Sonia feared. I admit it was the foremost thing on my mind when the Triad thugs tried to hijack our truck. When the first thug struck Dr. Grace, I thought that perhaps they didn't want just the truck, but maybe they'd try to turn a profit on our bodies as well.
I pulled that gun, shoved it in the other thug's face, and swore as filthily as I could. I thought he'd laugh it off—a bulldog laughing at a mouse, really—but somehow I surprised him enough to make him lose his grip on the door. I don't think he saw or even felt the express truck that hit him. A quick death … but it was a death all the same and one I caused.
Could I have done things differently? Could I have managed a different outcome? I don't know. I may never know.
All I know is this: I'm twenty-six years old. I'm installing my inventions on the Rim where they'll do the most good. I'm finally making a difference as I've always wanted. I managed to use my wits and save a ship. And yet … I've killed someone. That's a lot to have accomplished in a week.
God knows what I'll accomplish tomorrow.
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