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With a horrible onset of The Shakes, Nicholai picked up his father's overalls and clamped them under his arm again. Stumbling towards the door, he knocked twice, then pushed it open. It stuck halfway, as it pushed against something heavy on the floor. There was a quick snap of fluid Russian from the unseen cleaning crews who were trying to shift the body into the black sack.
Sidling through the small gap he took in the blood all over the floor, the cordite smoke and the blood that was all up the Commissar's boot and ankles that could just about be seen from their position under the desk. He practised a trick that had served him well during his life in the Coalition, in that he narrowed his vision until he focused on the Commissar's left ear, and ignored everything else.
"Dobre Dene, glorious Commissar of the People's Coalition!" He made sure he didn't make eye contact. Commissars had a suspiciously accurate instinct that seemed to identify maintenance workers by their eyes. "I- I am here to enlist in the Fighter Corps." He shuffled his feet for a moment. "What questions do you wish for me to answer, glorious Commissar of the People's Coalition?"
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"I, ah, yes..." He looked at his feet shame faced. "I am Nicholai Markov, citizen of Zvezdny Gorodok. First son of the Markov family." He swapped the armpit the orange overalls were in. "I booked an appointment with your secretary yesterday..." Then he went back to staring at the Commissar's left ear.
There was a truly horrible noise from behind him as one of the maintenance workers picked the corpse up by it's shoulders, foolishly allowing it's head to go unsupported. The bone structure already weakened by the plethora of bullets that had shattered it, collapsed, and spewed it's insides across the floor.
There was muted swearing in more Russian. Nicholai paled, and he couldn't even see what had happened. The Commissar, who clearly could see what had happened over Nicholai's shoulder remained unphased.
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He looked at his feet again. "Yes people's Commissar. My father was a swine, found guilty of redirecting and destroying classified message dump reports. His memory is a blight on my family's pride." He paused for a moment. "The Commissariat questioned myself, my family and all my neighbours, and found us all free of treachery." Still looking at his feet, he proffered the orange overalls.
"These were the maintenance overalls he was justly executed in. You can clearly see the bullet hole and blood stain. I would be honoured if you would take it, to remind others of the price of betrayal..." The folded square of sullied fabric remained offered.
There was a wet slapping noise as one of the cleaners tried to shepherd the stray globules of brain off the floor and into a bucket with a mop.
"Keep them," she said, laying down her pen. "You're a maintenance worker, yes? Yet you looked nauseated by the sight of our former friend a few minutes ago. How will you be able to fight, to injure, to kill our enemies if you can't stand the sight of blood?"
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"People's Commissar, I am not applying to become a marine." He glanced over his shoulder warily. "I feel they'd tear me apart. I want to become a pilot. The simulators, they are lifelike, da? I have no problem with the destruction of an enemy ship. It seems more... Detached." He tucked the overalls back under his arm and raised his gaze again.
"I want to fight for the Revolution. To win back some pride for my family after my... My father, and to take part in the glory that the Commissariat has taught me of my entire life. I can do this, people's Commissar!" He was shaking slightly again. "If you give me this, I'll take whatever assignment is given to me. I'll patrol our stations - escort our ships - even attack Crete itself if needed!" The shake had now progressed past anything visible, and the little man seemed to be buzzing ever so slightly.
Then he deflated. "But da, I am a maintenance worker. That means I have not got the job doesn't it, people's Commissar?" He shuffled his feet dejectedly.
"Depends." She leaned in. "You say you can kill people from a distance. But what about up close? Eh? You pull a Corsair's escape pod in and he attacks. What would you do then?" She folded her hands. "Would you be prepared to kill in cold blood, comrade? To murder a child before its mother's eyes, and not kill the mother until the child was dead, if your superiors ordered you to? Would you be prepared to commit monstrous, horrible acts in the name of the Revolution? Answer me, Maintenance Officer Markov!"
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He looked stunned, taken aback even, by the sudden tirade. "I- I... I would kill the Corsair... Or I would not pick up his escape pod in the first place. It would be so much easier to vaporise him in space, or leave him near a sun." He hesitated for a moment. "B-but... A child?" The Commissar's hard stare was unrelenting.
The shake became visible again. "Y-yes... I would do what I had to. But I do not know how such a situation would arise. We fight for the good of the people. We do not kill children. Do we?" He still looked flustered and slightly confused. The Coalition didn't kill children. He knew this; the Commissar was testing him.
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