Looking Glass 4 - Claws That Catch (11 page)

Them that has, gets: Washington, DC, had become a poster city for LGB gates. A series of them had been set up around the city, each in pairs to prevent collisions, permitting rapid movement across the entire city by simply stepping through the right portals. There were over thirty on the Washington Mall, alone, and a coffee-table book that consisted of nothing but pictures of the reflected images lasted surprisingly long on the bestseller lists.

Furthermore, through Looking Glasses at the defunct Dulles Airport, the city was connected to other countries and even to Adar. More portals then moved the incoming to Union Station, which was the central hub for all domestic arrivals and departures.

Miriam Moon actually lived in Dalton, GA, and had taken over fourteen minutes to get to the portal in Washington, including waiting for the connecting portal in Atlanta. Bill, on the other hand, lived in Huntsville, AL, and had a direct link.

“It was getting washed out at the wedding,” Miriam replied, surprisingly calmly. Bill had expected her to be nearly hysterical. He knew she'd be all right once she had to don her public personna, but he figured he'd have to hold her hand up to that point. “I'd been thinking about redoing it, was going to before we left. This just gave me a reason.”

“Did you get any sleep last night?” Bill asked, gesturing to the escalator and taking the handle of her rolling bag.

“No,” Miriam said, her voice shaking slightly. “But it gave me time to do my hair. And get over the panic. I could use something to eat, though. I was throwing up most of the night.” The linguist was particularly pale.

“Well, everybody's waiting in the restaurant top-side,” Bill said. “None of us has eaten, yet.”

“I hope you weren't waiting for me,” Miriam replied. “I nearly sent my regrets. Right up to the point I was getting ready to step through the gate.”

“The CAO was rather pointed that he wanted you to be there,” Bill pointed out.

“I'm not a Navy officer,” Miriam replied tartly. “Greg Townsend can kiss my white butt if he thinks he can order me to do anything.”

“I understand,” Bill said, rolling his eyes behind her back.

“Don't you roll your eyes at me, Bill Weaver,” Miriam said.

“Sorry.”

“I think we should have gone public from the beginning,” Miriam continued as they walked past a newspaper stand. Normally, there would have been a line for the Washington Post. Today, she was being heavily outsold by her more conservative brother. There was only one Times left on the rack and as they walked past someone grabbed it and got in line. “Why do we always have to do things as a crashing emergency?”

“The Chinese and Russians asked for more time,” Bill said. “I can imagine their reactions. We're going to have to wait until the third documentary until we know their full reactions.”

“Hi, guys,” Miriam said, slipping into the booth. “I need a waffle.”

“You going to be shiny, ma'am?” Red asked. The group was in civilian clothes but everyone had a suit bag with them holding their uniforms. “The hair looks great, by the way.”

“I'll be fine, Red, thanks,” Miriam said. “How's married life treating you, Eric?”

“Good,” Berg replied, shaking his head. “It's a bit of an adjustment, but . . . good. Really good.”

“I need to give him a jar and a bag of jelly beans,” Lurch said, grinning.

Eric looked around as the older members of the group, and Red, who was long married, all chuckled.

“I don't get it,” Eric admitted.

“Get a jar,” Red said. “A big one in your case, probably. And a bag or a dozen of jelly beans. Each time you fool around the first year of marriage, put a jelly bean in the jar. After the first year, each time you fool around pull out a jellybean and eat it. The legend says that no matter how many years you're married, you'll never empty the jar.”

“And for some reason, you only put in the licorice ones,” Weaver said. “Let's order, then I'll lay out the agenda. There's not much today, honestly. We're probably not even going to be put on display until after the third documentary comes out. But it's going to get rocky later in the week.”

“Are you shiny, Brooke?”

Tom was one of the older waiters in the restaurant, a pro of the old school. Brooke had tried to learn his moves, but it was like a tyro painter trying to copy a grand master; it just wasn't the same. She knew she'd need decades of experience to come close. And, frankly, she'd rather be a cook.

“That documentary that's coming out tonight, the government one,” Brooke said. “I think it has to do with my husband.”

“Well, we've got customers to attend to,” Tom said. “Try to stay in the groove.”

“Groovy, Tom,” Brooke said, looking at her orders and trying to recall what she knew she'd forgotten. “Salads to fourteen . . .”

“Drink refills on nine,” Tom said, sliding past her.

“Thank you.”

She checked her list, glanced at table nine and got replacements for the drinks that were low. Two diet cokes and a coke, not too hard.

“How are you doing?” she asked the family.

“Irritated,” the father said. “I need a scotch and soda.”

“I'll get that right away,” Brooke said, heading for the bar. It wouldn't break pattern too badly.

Unfortunately, the TV in the bar was tuned to a station that was broadcasting the “government documentary.” Brooke wasn't addicted to the news but she'd caught a snip of two talking heads debating the idea of government-produced documentaries. Neither of them liked the idea. But the customers at the bar were clearly riveted and as she was putting in the bar order she heard a familiar name.

“. . . Moon, ship's linguist. Miss Moon speaks twenty-seven languages fluently and put herself through college through modeling and painting portraits. A Renaissance woman par excellence, she is also a noted engineer and mechanic, often working on the ship systems of the Vorpal Blade . . .”

The next shot was a surveillance camera showing the girl Brooke had last seen in a daring Little Black Dress wearing a blue coverall, a big wrench in her hand, a smear of grease on her cheek and whacking away at some part in what was clearly a ship.

". . . Born in the small city of Waycross, Georgia, her father is a minister and her mother a school guidance counselor. With six degrees, including everything from forensic science to drafting, she is a critical member of the Vorpal Blade team.

“PFC Eric Bergstresser . . .”

“That's your husband, isn't it?” Tom asked, his eyes wide.

“Yes,” Brooke squeaked, picking up the drink for table nine.

“Leave it,” Tom said, looking over his shoulder. The restaurant was slowly emptying into the bar as more and more of the patrons came in to see what was going on. “Nobody cares.”

“. . . was born and raised in the small town of Crab Apple, West Virginia, where he lettered in track and field, football and basketball while also being the captain of the Central High School Physics club. He volunteered for the Marines and then for Force Recon and was the Distinguished Honor Graduate of his class in Force Reconnaissance Operators Training, one of the most demanding courses in the entire United States Military. A recent transfer to the unit, his presence was to be most fortuitous. Because while the missions of the Vorpal Blade required a team effort, if there was one outstanding member, one most valuable player if you will, it would be Two-Gun Berg.”

“That's her husband,” Tom said loudly, pointing at Brooke.

“Stop it, Tom!” Brooke snapped. “I need to go cover my tables . . .”

“They're all in here,” Tom said, sighing. “I need to go get this sorted out. It looks as if the restaurant is moving into the bar for the time being.”

“He's your husband?” one of the male patrons of the bar asked. In his sixties, he looked as if he'd been holding down the bar since the restaurant was opened. “So you knew about this?”

“Yes, he is and no, I didn't,” Brooke said. “He never talks about his work. What is this?”

“We've got a ship that goes to other planets,” a woman said over her shoulder. “Faster than light, that is. And not just where the gates go. The President introduced this thing and said that there was information in it that meant things were going to change, significantly.”

“The stock exchanges are being closed the day after the last documentary,” another patron said. “They just released the word today.”

“These are the missions of the Alliance Space Ship Vorpal Blade,” the announcer said stentoriously, to a view of the Blade One bursting out of the water. Then the TV cut to a commercial.

“Now that is an unfortunate acronym,” the first patron said. “I see the hand of the Adar in there.”

“I need to get back to work,” Brooke said.

“Just cover the back tables in the bar,” Tom said from over her shoulder. “I've got most of your people moved there. Bring the guy his drink.”

“I'm sorry about this,” Brooke said, trying hard not to cry. “My husband is one of the Marines on that ship. I never knew it until just now. It's sort of . . .”

“Don't sweat it,” the father said, holding out his hand for the scotch. “I'm a retired Navy captain.”

“Are you going to be okay, honey?” his wife asked. “Jim never told me things, too. But they didn't put most of them on prime-time.”

“I'll be fine,” Brooke said, sniffing. “I need to go check on your food.”

She got her tables covered just in time for the commercial to end and then got locked in again. By then the word had circulated that “the hero of the mission's” wife was one of the waitresses and her tables started cutting her some slack. Eventually, Tom pulled her off and just sat her at the bar as things heated up.

By the time the action ended she was crying and so were most of the patrons. Especially as the closing scrolled through the list of dead.

“Tomorrow night, the Vorpal Blade continues on her mission of discovery and uncovers both a great threat and a powerful ally. Until tomorrow, this is . . .”

“You've got yourself a good husband there,” the Navy wife said, taking her arm.

“I knew that even before tonight, ma'am,” Brooke said, wiping her eyes. “God, I must look terrible.”

“Never better,” the woman said. “It's tough living with a warrior, honey. But it's worth it. Hold on to what you've got. He'll be okay. Boys like that, well, they walk through raindrops.”

“Thank you, ma'am,” Brooke said.

“Lisa,” the woman replied, holding out a card. “You call me. Have you met your CO's wife, yet?”

“No, ma'am,” Brooke admitted. “We were supposed to have a get-together this weekend but it got cancelled.”

“She needs to get on the ball,” the woman said. “Especially after this. I'll make some calls. But if you need somebody to talk to, that's my number.”

“Thank you, ma'am.”

“It's Lisa,” the woman said. “You call me. That's an order.”

“Yes, ma'am,” Brooke said, grinning through the sniffles. “Does a military spouse have to obey orders?”

“No,” Lisa admitted. “But the smart ones learn to.”

Eric looked at his phone and sighed, then flipped it open.

“Hi, honey.”

“I don't know what to say,” Brooke said calmly.

“I'm sorry I couldn't say anything,” Berg said. “But they really blew it out of proportion.”

“Five out of forty-one, honey,” Brooke replied. “You said that much before, but I never really could understand that until tonight. All those . . .” Her voice started to break.

“Yeah,” Eric said. “Honey, it's shiny, really it is. I'll be okay. I promise. Are you going back on yours?”

“Not even close,” Brooke said. “But the other missions . . .”

“We can't talk about,” Eric said. “That is an absolute. We got seriously briefed on that. There are international, heck interstellar, agreements on it. But the good news is that I survived. Or bad news. We've been talking to reporters all day on deep background. All of them wanted to know what the big news is. I got to where that was my mantra: The big news is that all of us survived. For the rest, you're going to have to wait.”

“There wasn't really much about Miss Moon in this one,” Brooke said, getting right to the important part.

“She ends up shining in the next two,” Berg said. “I will say that. Honey, it's late. Get some sleep. I'll be home in a few days.”

“You can just hop a Looking Glass . . .”

“I'm sitting in the Marine Annex Transient Officers' Quarters by direct and personal order of the commandant,” Eric said. “Who is fully aware that we've been married less than two weeks and even apologized. But I'm also not allowed to leave. Sorry, honey.”

“It's shiny,” Brooke said, sighing. “What's that thing about I knew this would come but I didn't expect it to be so soon?”

“Yuh warns 'em and warns 'em . . .” Eric said, laughing halfheartedly. “I love you, honey.”

“Love you,” Brooke said. “I guess I'll see you tomorrow night. Sort of.”

“Night.”

“So we may not have Hexosehr on the next mission,” the CO continued. “Thoughts?”

“We need to figure out how to fix their systems without resorting to sending them to Runner's World for repair, sir,” Bill replied, rolling his eyes. It was the middle of the night and whereas the CO was up, too, he was calling from the shield room in HQ. Bill had had to catch a cab to the Pentagon when he got the call and would have to catch another back to the BOQ.

Fortunately, the stream was audio only, but Prael caught the sarcasm.

“And I'd entertain thoughts on that,” the CO said. “Captain.”

“Sick Miriam on it when she gets back,” Bill said. “The Hexosehr have got to have something on the order of repair manuals, they just need to be translated. She's a translator. And she has engineering background. Sounds like a perfect match and well within her standard duties.”

“I notice that you didn't recommend her to the CAO,” the CO said. “Any reason why?”

“Well, possibly because you were sitting right next to me and I was fully aware of your opinion of her, sir,” Bill replied tightly. “Or did you think I was going to knife you in the back?”

“Point taken, XO,” the CO said, just as tightly. “Look, Bill, let's bury the hatchet . . .”