Tribble #56
General Aleksandr Kerensky wasn't a godly man. Oh, as a young boy he had marveled at the beauty of the great Orthodox cathedrals dotting Moscow, and while studying at the Nagelring, he had taken in some "local flavor" and had his soul fired by the pompous grandiosity of Wagner's Der Ring des Niebelungen. Intellectually, he knew that the great religions cared for the poor, fed the hungry, and clothed the naked. He recognized that many of his soldiers derived comfort and consolation from their faith. He was surrounded by pious men such as General Ethan Moreau and Chaplain Windham Khatib, men who he respected deeply, and who obviously drew great strength from prayer. Even still, religious services made him uncomfortable, as did any thoughts of the divine which wandered through his head.
But now he was convinced. God existed. Oh yes, yes he did. And He only cared about one thing; dicking with Aleksandr Kerensky. Aleksandr had only ever wanted to serve the Star League, and God had given him Richard Cameron. He had only ever wanted to defend humanity from evil, and God had given him Stefan Amaris. He had only ever wanted to save humanity from itself, and God had given him first the Council Lords, then the mutiny on the Prinz Eugen. He had only ever wanted to see his people safe from harm, and now God, in his infinite malevolence, had delivered once again; this horrible swelling fever of the brain which ripped through their makeshift little colonies like the plagues of ancient Terra.
A month ago, it had taken his wife. That marvelous woman who had waited for him, hid for him, prayed for him, followed him, and now died for her loyalty. He had cried for days, felt like his heart would shatter in his chest. His staff had hid him from the outside world. Aaron had drunk with him, mourned with him, toasted to the memory of the woman who he barely knew. Good man.
But that was nothing next to what he felt now: the damned plague had taken his son. His beautiful, beautiful Nicholas. He had seen the still body that morning, skin grey with the familiar pallor of death that he had seen ten thousand times before. He had raged like a maniac, torn the surgical mask off his face and thrown himself across the thin corpse, crying "Nika, Nika!" Andery had had to physically pull him away, and he had cursed at him and beaten at him with enfeebled fists. They had screamed at each other in the hallway, tears streaming down their cheeks. Things had been said...It was unfair. He had been getting better. The medics had said that Nicholas would beat the fever, that he had turned the corner...
Aleksandr Kerensky sat in his office, and spent New Year's Day, 2786, cursing the God who had taken his son away.
