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Happy Gen Fic Day, everybody!
Not sure what I'm talking about? Take a look at previous round-ups for Gen Fic Days and Alphabet Soups.
Comment here with links to new fic, older fic, commentfic and drabbles, recs, meta, picspam, vids - anything, as long as it's gen and related to SG-1. Shameless self-promotion is cheerfully encouraged! The theme of the day is Allies, although fanworks can involve any subject.
If you're an Allies Alphabet Soup contributor, this is where you post links to your story. If you're unsure of procedure, please take a quick look here.
On Tuesday, I'll post a round-up of all links and (hopefully) the complete anthology of Allies Alphabet Soup.
Have fun!
Not sure what I'm talking about? Take a look at previous round-ups for Gen Fic Days and Alphabet Soups.
Comment here with links to new fic, older fic, commentfic and drabbles, recs, meta, picspam, vids - anything, as long as it's gen and related to SG-1. Shameless self-promotion is cheerfully encouraged! The theme of the day is Allies, although fanworks can involve any subject.
If you're an Allies Alphabet Soup contributor, this is where you post links to your story. If you're unsure of procedure, please take a quick look here.
On Tuesday, I'll post a round-up of all links and (hopefully) the complete anthology of Allies Alphabet Soup.
Have fun!
Tags:
X is for Xабаровск
It’s December 30th when they bring Ganya home to Khabarovsk.
[Aminev, Gennady Ivanovich. Captain. Born 10 October 1971. Killed in action 10 December 2003, at an undisclosed location. Posthumously awarded Hero of the Russian Federation for conspicuous gallantry.]
The river is thick with ice. The marshallers on the airstrip are bundled up to their eyebrows and wearing fur hats that are quickly collecting their own snowdrifts. Andrei Chekov, in his own fur hat and muffler, his only distinguishing marks a general’s wool greatcoat and the stars on his shoulders, is waiting on the tarmac when they carry Ganya off the plane.
The weather is nothing new to Chekov. Khabarovsk was his first posting. He was nineteen. He remembers the drafty little shed at the edge of the airstrip, and the tiny oil heater whose only function seemed to be convincing rawboned boys that it couldn’t possibly be as cold inside the marshallers’ hut as they thought it was. When they sent him off to Cuba three years later, he praised the God he wasn’t supposed to believe in.
There’s no honor guard waiting when they carry the little pine box draped with the Russian flag off the plane; none but the blowing snow and the marshallers with their beacons and a general several years past his prime.
Chekov thinks of state funerals that will never happen, of parades honoring fallen heroes that would mean admitting state secrets, of cosmonauts whose names are etched in history (Gagarin, Tereshkova) for going a millionth as far from earth as Ganya went. He says a prayer to the God he still doesn’t believe in for the soul of a fallen hero.
They load Ganya into the back of the waiting TIGR. The driver holds the passenger door open for Chekov, offers him a salute.
They’ll bury Ganya in the morning.
Chekov will return his personal effects (all but one) to pretty Yelena, pat Ganya’s sons on the head, tell them their father was a great hero.
He touches his pocket.
Perhaps someday the Americans will loosen their stranglehold on the truth.
Perhaps someday he will be able to go to Yelena, to little Sasha and his brother, and give them the patch he holds in his pocket, with its blazon stitched in silver thread. Perhaps someday he will tell them a story that begins, “Your papa was SG-4.”