SOMETHING WAITS (8 page)

T
he Colifax she wore at her girdle, and she didn’t like it. It pulled the wrong way. It hurt. It looked ugly.

The stunner she had thrown away hours ago. She could always claim later she’d lost it in the tangled underbrush. It would cost her, of course, but she’d rather pay a fine than be humiliated by the presence of a common gun. She would have thrown away the Colifax too, even earlier, but it happened to be worth several million credits base value and even more than that to the prestige of Colony Six and its commander; if she had any intention of staying with the Fleet, she’d better hang onto that particular piece of hardware.

All right, she’d put up with the damn thing. Even if it did get in her way, slow her down and (most importantly) unforgivably disfigure her sexy, newly designed combat uniform. She’d suffer through.

But damned if she’d use it. She’d flit through this mission in record time, bring back her man without a scratch (to either of them) and collect her credits and medals. And she didn’t need any so-called cutting-edge techno-gadget to accomplish it. Dangers? Of course. Threats? To be sure. There were always those. But she’d run into them before, in more jungles on more planets than she could remember. She could handle it. Handle it well.

She had her sword.

Ah. Her sword.

She touched it now, lightly, on the jeweled hilt as she stepped over the next moss-laden log, and couldn’t suppress a smile of pride tugging her lovely cheek. Now
here
was a sword!

The uniform may have been for show, true; the flaming hair, moisture-gloss lips, black choker and diamond slippers, pure eye-candy, all for effect. Granted. Even the elegant sweep and flamboyant design of the blade itself may have been opulently histrionic—but that’s where the similarity ended. Once that ivory hand wrapped around that ebon grip and the blinding sabre length sang from its scabbard, all the tinsel ended, all the glitter vanished.

She was lightning, she was whirlwind, she was blinding blur—everywhere her opponent should have been just one nth of a second before he got there—all slash and gleam and terrible wind-screaming death was she. Until her combatant got dizzy just watching, just absorbing this wondrous dervish-- probably never felt the incredible razor incisions even after the ground was soaking red under him and his knees were buckling of their own accord. Oh she was good. She was the best. Sex distinction notwithstanding. In a word: unbeatable.

She knew it too. Enjoyed the reputation and attentive awe that went with it. Men were at once intensely enamored with and terrified of her. She simply could not be bested with a sword—not at Colony Six, anyway, and in a place where the men outnumbered the women three to one…well, it made for an interesting career.

They were all in love with her; all the men and many of the women. She was beautiful, exotic, talented, lethal. It’s easy to love people like that. Even the Colony Commander wasn’t immune; him with his stuffy little paneled office and his stuffier little shirt…

* * *

“Come in, Sheffield, yes…”

“Thank you, sir.”

“Sit down, please.”
My God, is
THAT
her uniform! Is she running around the halls like that?

“I prefer to stand, thank you, sir.”
It shows me off better.

“As you wish.”
>ahem!< “
Now, as you’ve no doubt heard, we’ve got an AWOL as of last night, Sheffield. A cadet…uh…papers and name here somewhere…”

“’Leakwood,’ sir.”

“‘Leakwood,’ yes. Cadet Leakwood.
AWOL as of 0730. Our
first
AWOL in seven years. Seven years, Sheffield. The first
ever
on my watch. I don’t like it. Don’t like it a bit. I want him back, do you understand? I want him alive. I want him disciplined. Do you understand me, Sheffield?”

“I do, sir.”

“It’s a blemish, Sheffield. You can appreciate that.”

She looked down a moment at her perfect arms, unblemished breasts. “Yes, sir.”

“We can rectify this thing, Sheffield. Cleanly. Efficiently. Without it getting upstream, if you take my meaning. We have the training, we have the technology. We’re one of the best, Sheffield, one of the very best. We don’t want a blemish like this on Colony record, on everything Fleet stands for.”

He cleared his throat, found himself staring at her torso without approval. “That…ah, uniform you’re wearing. Has it been officially recognized?”

“It has sir. I designed it myself. After the Princess Dejah Thoris.”

“The who?”

“Dejah Thoris, sir, a fictional creation of Edgar Rice Burroughs.”

“Burroughs…”

“Twentieth Century novelist, sir. He’s all the rage now.”

“Is he now? Huh.” Furrowing of brow, shaking of head. “What they’re passing for regulation these days. Now, in my day, we… anyway, you’ll wear something else for this mission. Something less…revealing.”

“Sir, I prefer to go as I am. This is designed as a combat uniform.”

“Perhaps, Sheffield, but it’s hardly…I mean, your…bosom—it’s unprotected.”

“Bare breasts are quite common on Cylis 4 now, sir.”

“I’m aware of what is and isn’t vogue, Sheffield, but—“

“Sir, I believe my present uniform will afford me with the greatest amount of comfort, familiarity and physical dexterity for the mission, thereby serving as the best asset to my abilities.”

* * *

Clever, that speech. But then, she’d rehearsed it thirty or forty times before entering his office in anticipation of his remarks. Self-designed combat uniforms were more and more commonplace on Fleet soldiers now, but this one was almost too radical. Like everything else about her.

She smiled a confident little smile as she moved through the forest. Every female at Colony Six was jealous of her ability to handle the Commander. If they only realized how simple it was; how, under all the brass and bluff, he was just like all men. Weak.

Ahead and to the right a twig snapped.

Her smile broadened. She was on Leakwood’s trail to be sure; he had, in fact, made little attempt to conceal it. But an ambush in this clearing? Not likely. Leakwood just wasn’t the type. Besides, unless she’d missed her guess, Leakwood liked her.

It wasn’t surprising, then, to find a stranger confronting her when she rounded the next tree. What was surprising was to find a member of Fleet standing there. As far as she knew, Colony Six had exclusive privileges on this planet. Could this be another AWOL from another Colony?

She strode politely if confidently up to the man and took in his bearing in a single sweep of her lovely green eyes: tall, husky, yellow Fleet stripe on his arm (like hers), buccaneer pants and boots (very vogue these days), tank top, series seven sword, no stunner, unnaturally curly hair. This last item was egocentric. Any man who had his hair set regularly was obviously glued on himself; this one was probably into an Errol Flynn thing (also very vogue these days). It
could
be merely swagger, but then she was flamboyant as well—and she was
good!
It was always prudent to test, even when you were the best.

“Station?” It was the expected universal greeting.

“Colony Twelve.”

She didn’t like the way he said it: snobbish, self-important. She didn’t like what his mouth did when it formed the words. But she was on official business, in a hurry. She’d give him the benefit of the doubt. “I’m Sheffield, Colony Six. On Fleet Apprehension Orders. Do you wish to assist?”

“No.”

It was the way he said it again. Ohh, this one was a smartass all right. That conceited, jutting chin, patronizing air. Probably a sexist to boot. She knew she should get about her business, leave this jerk to himself, but she couldn’t help adding one last item. “Are you aware that this planet is restricted to Colony Six personnel?”

“Is that a fact?”

“What is your business here?”

“I came to bag a Rhunk. With my sword.”

With his sword. Cute. Stuck on at the end to let her know he didn’t need a stunner to kill a Rhunk. Ohh, a real smartass all right. She knew what reaction her next words would elicit and she said them anyway.

“That’s against Fleet law.”

He smiled, widening the smarmy conceit, and his hand touched his sword hilt as she knew it would. “And you’re going to report me,” he filled-in for her.

“Yes.”

“Klete!” It was what she expected, one of the universal words for ‘on guard’ always followed by the swift unsheathing of the challenger’s sword. There were other words, but “Klete’ was the most widely used. Either she followed suit now or faced ridicule.

“Hawn!” Her word. Ancient Oriental, like her fighting style. Neither was widely known and rarely practiced, which was why she chose them. Her sword literally sang from its scabbard—
shiiinggg!—
a result of the friction of twin blade sharpeners employed within her case. It wasn’t impossible to buy such a scabbard but they were known only to the elite.

His
sword, she noticed made a sound like
shuuunk.
No sharpeners. He might be a prima donna but he wasn’t in her league.

She stepped in immediately, not wasting time, with a deliberately slowed English shoulder thrust, sacrificing style now to see what he could do. He parried nicely—anyone could have—but still, his movements were quite dexterous, even admirable. She pivoted next, went low and tried a Cyrnian
volupe
to the solar plexus. Again he blocked with ease, adding a quick counter slice when he leapt lightly back that was supposed to put her off balance. It didn’t, of course, but he
was
above average, definitely.

She played with him for a time, letting him get in some false scores until she knew his every strength and weakness. And, although the latter far outnumbered the former, she found him an exceptional swordsman with the potential to be even better—if he stopped spending all his time in the beauty salon. It would be a pity, she decided, to waste someone who could be an asset to Fleet.

She stepped back, clicked her heels together, and pointed her sword stiffly at the forest floor to her right. It mean either,
I yield
or
Let’s reconsider.
“You’re a fine swordsman. I don’t wish you harm. Leave the planet now and I see no reason to report you.”

The vain smile again. He thought she was bluffing out of fear. Oh, boy. There was just no help for this guy. All right then, she’d tried. The fun was over. She had to get back to work.

“Klete!” he answered and threw himself into an excessively ostentatious fighting pose.

Now it was her turn to smile. “Hawn,” she said calmly, and slowly, ever so slowly drew her sword level to and horizontal with her breasts. It was a maneuver she savored. They were splendid breasts; generous and round and pink-nipple firm. Few men could watch them and her sword simultaneously. He proved no exception.

Her next movement was so lightning-fast, he had only time to feel the breeze her John Carter blade made passing in front of him. He started to counter but she was frozen now at the completion of her turn, staring passively at his chest.

But she had missed! He was sure of it! He’d felt nothing! He glanced down at his chest.

The ribbons of crimson appeared magically across his tank top, delayed seconds by the impossible keenness of her blade. His mouth fell open. Before he could shut it again, she was behind him, wrist flicking ivory bright in the sun, sending the slashed tank top swishing from his body and over his head. Together they watched the material arc high into the air to drape neatly over a leafy branch.

When he whirled in humiliated fury to slash at her, she was gone, pirouetting gracefully to his right—no, to his left—no, no she was
behind
him again—pulling tentatively at his wide swashbuckler’s belt with the point of her weapon, then effortlessly slicing leather like butter to the ankles. The pants fell away like separate, faded petals. Then she feinted to the right—he followed, stumbling—and, leggings tangling his ankles now, crashed in an inglorious heap as she’d planned. He had to let go of his sword to prevent impaling himself.