Starfist: FlashFire (26 page)

Walker glanced surreptitiously over at Cazombi, who nodded slightly and in that simple gesture transmitted between them the thousand-year old wisdom of battle-hardened veterans. The age-old disdain that the frontline officer felt toward the staff officer secure in his headquarters began to coalesce into actual hatred for this new commanding general.

“Carry on, Captain,” Billie said abruptly, spinning on his heel and striding back into the communication tunnel. Captain Woo scrambled to follow right behind him.

Cazombi grinned at Walker as he turned to go, tossing him a small packet. “Pin these on your man, Jasper.”

Walker’s men continued to stand at attention, waiting for him to dismiss them. The sotto voce comments he heard about the visitors, however, were not very complimentary. “No talking in ranks, men,” he ordered facetiously. “Sergeant Carman, front and center.”

Carman emerged from the knot of enlisted men and stood before his commander at stiff attention. “Normally I’d have some beer to wet these down,” Walker announced. “You’re now Second Lieutenant Carman,” Walker handed Carman the pips of his new rank. “Your orders and pay will catch up with you, someday, maybe. All right, men, you may now come forward and kiss your new executive officer.” Later, after the handshaking and back pounding were over, Walker said, “I need a sergeant to replace you, Herb. Who do you recommend?”

“Mesola, sir.”

Walker raised an eyebrow. “Isn’t he a bit of a, um, well, wiseass, Herb?”

“Yessir, but he’s very resourceful. He’ll make a good junior noncom.”

“Very well, Mesola it is,” he laid a hand on Carman’s shoulder. “Herb, years from now when we tell our grandchildren we met in the women’s wear department of the Fort Seymour post exchange, will they believe us?”

“Depends what we’ll be wearing at the time, sir,” Carman laughed, “but first we’ve got to live through this hell.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

In the time Charlette Odinloc had been on Ravenette she hadn’t studied the planet’s geography in much detail, so she never properly gauged the full extent of the “Ocean Sea”—it had never been given any other name—on the other side of which was Donnie Caloon’s home. Likewise, a trip of a mere ten thousand kilometers on any of the settled planets in the Confederation of Worlds was a mere jaunt, at the most no more than a week or ten days even by oceangoing vessel. But not on Ravenette. On Ravenette many things had reverted to the nineteenth century.

Donnie had booked them passage on a
very
slow freighter that took
two months
to cross the ocean, traveling in a huge arc from north to south to north that added thousands of kilometers to a voyage that Charlette thought would’ve taken them straight across the water to Cuylerville, which was one of the few settlements on a continent about the size of Africa on Earth. And it stopped at every port along the way, even the tiniest inhabited islands, discharging and embarking passengers and cargo. As the captain explained to them on their first night at sea, his ship, the
Figaro,
made this trip twice a year and was the only contact many people along its route had with the rest of the world. “Ve brings dem der supplies and newses, picks up da peoples, drops off da peoples, brings evertings dey needs,” the captain, Ermelo Putten, told them in his expansive manner, pulling constantly at his huge black beard as he talked. But the
Fig,
as everyone called the vessel, was a tightly run ship, the crew polite and competent, and the food plentiful and good.

“And vot you do, young lady Miz Charlette?” Captain Putten asked one night at his table. It was obvious to everyone on board that Charlette was not from Ravenette. Her Standard English was perfectly understandable to all on board, but her accent was not of their world. Neither was Captain Putten’s or that of most of his crew. Putten explained airily that he came from Earth originally, a place he called “Neederlan,” somewhere in Old Europe.

Charlette had anticipated questions like this. She was careful not to answer too quickly. “I was in the army, stationed at Fort Seymour, sir. I met Donnie and we became engaged. I took my discharge when my enlistment was up and now we’re going to Donnie’s home to get married.” As she spoke she felt a sinking feeling in her stomach, like she had stepped into quicksand and was sucked ever downward into it.
Goddamnit, I don’t want to get married!
she screamed to herself. Where was this adventure taking her anyway?

Captain Putten slammed a massive fist on the table, causing the silverware to jump, and shouted, “Och,
marry,
you two
marry
? Wunnerful! I, as de captain of dis vessel, I can do the marriages, all legal! Why not you let ol’ Ermelo do the marriages for you? Den, ven Donnie he gets himself home, aha! dere you is,
married
! Hooked up for the rest of your lives! Saves a lot of money, do it on board de
Fig,
” he added winking. The other passengers and the ship’s officers at the table applauded and heartily congratulated the pair.

Captain Putten’s table, Charlette discovered, always offered alcohol in plenty. By the time the talk had gotten around to her and Donnie, everyone had had a lot to drink, including Donnie, who
whoop
ed loudly and slammed his mug on the table. Charlette smiled, hoping she looked enthusiastic, and thought even quicker than before.
This
she had not expected.

“But Donnie, don’t you remember?” she stammered. “We were so much hoping your parents would be at the wedding? If we let the good captain marry us here, now, aren’t we going to disappoint your folks, ain’t they—
aren’t
they?” She corrected herself automatically but she had been picking up lots of Donnie’s mannerisms lately.

“We were?” Donnie asked, not remembering discussing that at all and looking at the other passengers as if for confirmation. Then he shook his head to clear it. “Well, Captain, we don’t want to disappoint my folks.”

“Och, of course not! Cap’n Ermelo, he unnerstan! But I tell you what: Vile you on my ship you gets de ‘bridal suite’,” he roared with laughter. “I gifs you cabin wit single big bed and own head! Ahhahaha, how you likes dat, eh? Ahhahahaha! And,” he added, slamming his fist on the table again, “you dines wit me
every
evenink dis whole voyage!”

Both Donnie and Charlette admitted it was a wonderful gesture on the captain’s part. When they finally excused themselves from the table everyone was so drunk nobody noticed the gray sickly cast to

Charlette’s face.

The days passed slowly but too quickly for Charlette. The matter of her impending marriage to someone she liked but would prefer not to spend the rest of her life wedded to boded badly for her future, but something else was worrying her even more. She could now be classified as an army deserter! Sure, she was caught in town when the war began, not her fault. She was on a mission. That’s why she was in Donnie’s apartment to begin with, and the intelligence she had developed through her relationship with him had proved useful to the troops at the fort. And she couldn’t have gotten back to the fort after the shooting started because crossing the lines would’ve been suicidal. And everyone was forced by government decree to evacuate the city. She dreamed vividly one night of the dialogue she’d have with the prosecutor, a major in the Judge Advocate Corps, at her trial for desertion:

“And so, Sergeant Odinloc, the thought never occurred to you to turn yourself in at the consulate, where you’d have been protected and repatriated to friendly hands? How far was it from this Donnie Caloon’s apartment to the consulate?” The way he pronounced Donnie’s last name made it sound like an insult. “Tell the panel, Sergeant! How far was it? A block? Two blocks? You broke your leg, maybe?”

“Um, ah, well, sir . . .”

“You were on an intelligence-gathering mission, Sergeant! How could you have gone into the city without knowing the landmarks? I’ll tell you how far it was, Sergeant! It was
five blocks
! Five blocks to safety and instead, what did you do? You chose to flee on a ship into the boundless oceans of Ravenette and disappear like a criminal into Hicksville somewhere, and to secure your cover, you
married
this, Donnie
Caloon
fellow—here he actually smirked, gesturing at Donnie, smiling like an idiot, who sat in the vast, hostile audience that had been invited to the trial, which was also being covered by all the news services—“until you were found and arrested! Gentlemen,” he said, turning to the court-martial panel, “I think it is plain this, this
traitor
deliberately deserted her post and her comrades in the face of the enemy to save her own skin, and that you should find her guilty of all specifications and charges!”

“We don’t need to go any farther!” the judge, a full colonel, shouted, “Guilty, by Amphion’s unstrung lyre! Sergeant Odinloc, I hereby sentence you to life imprisonment and a fine of
one million credits
payable to Mr. Donnie Caloon in compensation for the way you used that poor boy to facilitate your traitorous escape!” The crowd roared its approval.

The roaring proved to be Donnie’s snoring. Charlette lay there breathing heavily, a very sick feeling in the pit of her stomach. God, God, God, what have I gotten myself into? she asked. The chronometer indicated it was 3 a.m., wherever they were, somewhere at sea. The ocean was dead calm and the only noise was the subdued humming of the ship’s reactor-powered turbines. Charlette quietly dressed, took a pack of Donnie’s cigarettes, and found her way on to the fantail of the
Figaro
. There was no one there at this hour. She lit the cigarette and drew the
thule-
laced nicotine into her lungs, holding it there for seconds before expelling it into the soft night breeze. Ravenette’s moon was full and it cast a bright luminescence over the wake trailing behind the ship. Under normal circumstances this would have been a very romantic moment for a young lady like Charlette Odinloc.

The news that night had been full of war now raging around Fort Seymour where apparently survivors of the 3rd Division were successfully holding out in fortified positions that were under continuous attack and anticipated to fall momentarily to the forces of the secessionist coalition. She discounted everything else in the report as enemy propaganda except the simple fact that her old outfit was still fighting! For a moment a hot bolt of pride lanced through her, but that was followed by despair. She really
was
deserting! She was sitting here on the deck on a moonlit night smoking dope while her friends and comrades were . . . she flipped the butt over the stern, buried her head between her knees, and let the hot tears flow.

“You all right, Hon?” Donnie sat beside her. “OK?” he put his arm around her. “I figured you’d gone for a walk out here, so I come after you,” he explained.

Without waiting to think twice, Charlette blurted out the truth about herself.

“Aw, hell,” Donnie responded when she was done, “I knew you was a spy all along!”

“You
whaaaat
?”

“Yeah,” Donnie shrugged. He took the pack of cigarettes and lighted one. “I mean, lookit yer hands, girl! You ain’t never done no work in a laundry! And besides, I figured you was a snoop, that’s why you was always so curious about the things I saw, ’n the police tol’ me to—”

“The
police
? Donnie you told the
police
on me?”

“Yeah. You’re a spy, ainja? They tol’ me to lead you along.”

“You—you—Donnie! How come they didn’t arrest me, then?”

“Well I guess they was goin’ to, sometime. Guess when the war started they had other things to think about. Glad they did, tell the truth. Aw, Hon, don’t look so, so, damned—”

“Stricken?”

“Yeah! I din’ tell’em where we was going! Nobody knows where we are! I just figured it was my duty, ya’ know, to make a report, but hell’s bells, honeybun, I wasn’t gonna let ’em get ya! Gawdam, no, I wasn’t!”

Charlette had difficulty getting her breath. It was as if someone had kicked her in the chest, this revelation. It was almost funny. Here she, the sophisticated offworld army intelligence agent, was stringing this yokel along and all the time . . .

“You was only tellin’ yer people stuff they already knew or could figure out for themselves,” Donnie said. “I din’ really see you as a bad spy, Charlette, honest! See, honey, I know I look stupid to most folks, and act stupid too, but I know one thing, you are the best thing that’s ever come into my life! Yer smartern’ everybody in Cuylerville, maybe, but by Gawd, yer my girl! We get along good together and I know you ain’t lyin’ when you scratch the livin’ shit outta my back in bed! And I know with my good looks ’n your brains, why that baby of ours is gonna be one good-lookin’ smart sumbitch! So what I mean, Charlette, is I want you to give things a chance. We got us a
opportunity
here, you know? ’N I love you enuff, girl, that if you don’t wanna stick with me, I won’t hold you to it. ’N whatever you done against yer laws ’n regulations ’n so on, we’ll worry about that later. But right now nobody knows where we are, nobody can touch us, ’n I bet nobody’d even give a hoot if they knew. So let’s see what’s waitin’ fer us ’n just roll along with the waves.”

Donnie drew Charlette close to him and she rested her head on his shoulder and the turbines of the
Figaro
sang on into the night.

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

Sergeant Charlette Odinloc received two surprises when she and Donnie Caloon at last arrived in Loudon County on the opposite shore of the Ocean Sea. The first was that Donnie’s father was not the one who ruled the roost in the Caloon household. This fact was the source of instant friction. And the second was Cuylerville, when they eventually got there.

“Whar’d you pick her up?” were Aceta Caloon’s words upon seeing Charlette for the first time. Donnie’s mother stood at dockside, one arm on a bony hip, glaring at her son. Then she shifted a baleful, appraising glance at Charlette. “How long ya been pregnant, girl?” were the first words she spoke directly to Charlette. She turned to Donnie before Charlette could answer and said, “Boy, yer skinny as a rail! Les’ git on home and git some food into yer guts!”

Donnie’s father, Timor, a bluff, thick-chested man with powerful arms stood by silently, a shy smile on his face. He tentatively but gently took Charlette’s hands in his big paws and squeezed them lightly, then, breaking into a huge grin, he pounded his son on the back and shook hands with him vigorously but said nothing by way of greeting.

“We don’t got no conveniences here like you do over in the capital, girl,” Aceta said to Charlette, “so ya better be wearin’ yer walkin’ shoes!” Without further word she spun around and began trudging up the road toward the distant hills.

Bringing up the rear of the procession, Donnie’s father put a big hand on each of their backs and gently propelled his son and his fiancée after Aceta.

“Momma, Charlette and me et pretty good,” Donnie protested to his mother’s quickly receding back. She only shook her head and forged onward. “Cuylerville’s two kilometers down this road,” Donnie whispered to Charlette.

As they trudged down the road Charlette studied the Caloons. Aceta was a thin, bony woman, her steel-gray hair tied into a bun at the back of her head. Her face was long and seamed with wrinkles and dominated by piercing blue eyes. She looked to be in her nineties, but couldn’t have been beyond her sixties—old age for backwoods people. Her clothes appeared to be homemade, from some kind of cottonlike fabric, and they hung loosely on her spare frame. She walked at a steady, even pace. After a short while Charlette found it difficult to keep up with her and gradually she and Donnie began to fall back.

“Can’t keep up with yer ma? Ya been livin’ too soft in that city, Donnie, boy!” she called back over her shoulder but she never slowed a step to let them catch up.

Donnie’s father also appeared to be in his nineties but it was hard to judge because hard labor was etched into every feature. He marched along steadily, easily keeping up with his children, and as she watched him Charlette realized he could easily match his wife’s stride, but was only hanging back to keep them company. His face and neck were burned brown from years of exposure to the sun and his big hands were thickly callused from work. Donnie had told her his father was a farmer but he’d been vague about just what it was he cultivated on his spread. Whatever kind of farm Timor Caloon worked, it was painfully obvious to Charlette that he used mostly manual labor and he’d been doing it all his life.

At every step along the dusty, unpaved road Sergeant Charlette Odinloc had the eerie feeling she was trudging steadily back into the past of human history. She had no idea such primitive people still existed in Human Space. But what really troubled her was that with every step toward Cuylerville she was slipping inexorably further and further into the status of a deserter.