Starfist: Wings of Hell (6 page)

“Well, what do you suppose
she
wants with
us
?” Israel Ramadan, Thirty-fourth FIST’s executive officer, asked as he read Blankenboort’s message over Sturgeon’s shoulder.

“Belated thank-you note from the government of Wanderjahr?” Sturgeon suggested.

“Very belated, Ted. Guess we’ll find out when the lady gets here, which”—he checked his chronometer—“should be just about now.”

“Come on, then, let’s get outside and welcome her aboard.”

When the landcar drew up to the headquarters building Sonia opened her own door, jumped lightly to the ground, and came around the vehicle to join Captain Reems. The captain introduced her to Sturgeon: “Sir, may I present Special Envoy from Wanderjahr Ms. Sonia Motlaw.”

Sturgeon took Sonia’s hand, squeezed it briefly, and introduced Colonel Ramadan. He shook hands with Reems. “Billy, thanks loads for getting us those hydration units in such good time,” he said. “Well, shall we get inside out of this freezing wind?”

“Captain, don’t wait on me. I don’t know how long I might be. I have detained you long enough from your important duties.” Sonia laid a hand on Reems’s shoulder and kissed him lightly on one cheek.

“I’ll have someone drive her back to Mainside, Billy,” Sturgeon offered. “Thanks very much for bringing her down here.”

“No problem, sir.” Reems saluted, climbed very reluctantly back into his vehicle, and drove off.

“We can put you up here in our guest quarters for the night if you wish, madam…”

“Sonia.” She gave Sturgeon her smile. “Call me Sonia. I apologize for the inconvenience, Brigadier, Colonel.” She nodded at Ramadan. “And I promise not to take up very much of your time. Thanks for the offer but I’m catching the twenty-hours shuttle back to New Oslo.”

“Well, Sonia, I’m Ted, and Colonel Ramadan is Izzy.” Once inside the building they took seats around Sturgeon’s desk. “Very Spartan in here, Brigadier.” Sonia grinned.

“Well, I don’t spend much time in the HQ, Sonia. You know, with comfortable offices, commanders will find too much time to spend in them and that’s not how I run this FIST.” He smiled. “Coffee or something stronger to drive out the chill?”

“No, thank you, Ted. I’ll come straight to the point of my visit. I have a personal message for Joseph Finucane Dean, who I believe is assigned to the third platoon of Company L in your infantry battalion.”

Few things in life ever surprised Brigadier Theodosius Sturgeon, but this information did. However, he kept his composure. “Yes, that’d be Corporal Dean; he’s in Captain Conorado’s company. Colonel Ramadan, would you have Sergeant Major Shiro get Dean up here on the double.”

“Excuse me, Brigadier, but I’d much rather go to him. If that’s possible and no trouble for you.”

“Well, sure, Sonia, but you’re the highest-ranking visitor we’ve had to this place in as long as I can remember and…” Sturgeon shrugged.

“Oh, not that high ranking, Brigadier.” Sonia smiled. “I’m just a messenger, in fact. Is his residence far from here?”

Colonel Ramadan could hardly suppress a smile. No one, in his memory, had ever referred to an enlisted Marine’s barracks as a “residence.” “It’s a brisk walk, ma’am, and I’d be honored to escort you there.”

“That is very kind of you, Colonel.”

“Are you sure you can’t spend the night with us, Sonia?” Sturgeon asked.

“No, Ted, my business with Dean will not take very long. Besides, I have parsecs to travel before I sleep and promises to keep, as the poet hath said.” She laughed and her laughter proved infectious, even bringing a smile to Ramadan’s normally grave expression.

“Very well. I’ll have Dean meet you in his orderly room where Colonel Ramadan will escort you. Uh, Sonia, one thing, though. Can you tell us what this is all about? Dean is a fine Marine and he’ll go far in the Corps. I hope this does not mean trouble for him. As his FIST commander I need to know about such things. You understand.”

“Yes, I do, Ted, I do. But this is a purely personal matter, and I am not at liberty to divulge any more than that. I am sorry, truly. This must seem a great imposition to you. But just remember, we Wander-jahrians will never forget what your men did for us. While my message is important to Mister, er,
Corporal
Dean, it in no way reflects unfavorably upon him, this FIST, or the Confederation Marine Corps. I assure you of that.”

On the way to the Company L orderly room, Colonel Ramadan made small talk with Sonia Motlaw and he found her a very pleasant, engaging, but thoroughly determined young woman. He admired her for that, her stunning figure aside.

As they walked along Marines saluted the colonel smartly as they passed by. “Good afternoon, sir!” one would announce. “Good afternoon, Private Wigley,” Colonel Ramadan would reply, returning the salute. After about twenty such engagements with different Marines, Sonia turned to Ramadan and asked, “How do you manage to remember the names of
all
these men, Colonel?”

“Well, it’s a talent you develop as a Marine officer, ma’am. When I was an ensign, a platoon commander, oh, many years ago now, I forgot the name of one of my men. It just slipped my mind. My company commander gave me an ass reaming, er, excuse me—”

“I have one of those, too, Colonel,” Sonia laughed.

“—so bad that I’ve never forgotten the lesson.”

Colonel Ramadan found he really enjoyed talking to the bright young lady. He briefly considered taking her the long way around to the Company L orderly room, to remain in her company a bit longer, but aside from the fact that his right arm was getting tired, he was too old and too much a professional to play that game with such a serious and dedicated lady. She didn’t deserve that. He smiled to himself, though. What was beautiful sixty years ago was
still
beautiful. He left her, somewhat reluctantly, in the care of Captain Conorado and made his way back to the headquarters, shaking his head. “Now what the
fuck
did Dean get himself into, back there on Wanderjahr?” he asked aloud. He’d have a word or two with several NCOs in Company L, after Sonia was gone, and he’d find out. You can’t keep secrets in the Marine Corps.

CHAPTER FIVE

Rachman Claypoole woke to the clatter of pots and pans being readied in the kitchen, and smiled. It would have been better to wake up and find Jente in his arms, but having a breakfast specially made by loving hands just for him came in a close second. He got out of bed and went into the head—the bathroom, he corrected himself; he was in Jente’s home, not a military installation—and gave himself a quick wash then padded naked to the kitchen. He leaned on the doorjamb and smiled again as he watched Jente preparing breakfast.

“Do you want your eggs over medium?” she asked.

“Sounds delicious.”

She turned to look at him, smiling. Her smile widened when she saw his nudity, and she struck a pose. “Like what you see?” she asked.

“I very much like what I see.” Jente wasn’t what anybody would call classically beautiful. A life spent running a farm had taken much of the softness from her curves, roughened her hands, and darkened her skin where it was constantly exposed to the sun. But everything about her was properly shaped and well proportioned.

“What,” she said with a laugh in her voice, “a woman barefoot, naked, and in the kitchen?”

The question startled him. If it hadn’t been asked with a smile, it would have offended him. But since Jente had smiled, he came back with “You’re not naked, you’re wearing an apron.”

She laughed lightly. “Bide your time. And come, sit. Breakfast will be ready in a couple of minutes.”

Claypoole pushed off from the doorjamb and sat at the table. “I like an eat-in kitchen,” he said. “It’s so homey.”

Jente smiled at him over her shoulder. A moment later, she dished out the food and placed the plates on the table. She whipped off the apron and struck another pose. “There, now you have your barefoot, naked woman in a kitchen.” She bent over with a hand on his shoulder, kissed him on the mouth, and danced away from his hands. “Not yet, love. Food first. Then fooling around.”

He grinned at her. “Yes, ma’am.” And dug in. He enjoyed the meal—and the sight of Jente across the table.

Later, back in bed and sated, Claypoole lay supine with one arm under the pillow behind his head and the other curled around Jente’s shoulders, enjoying the feel of her breast on his chest as she lay half on him, toying with his chest hair.

“I love you,” she murmured, almost too low for him to hear.

“I li—” He realized exactly what she had said and corrected himself. “I love you, too.”

“Do you? Really?” She raised her head to look into his eyes and propped her chin on the hand that had been playing with his chest hair.

He gazed into her eyes and bent his neck to kiss her forehead. “Yes,” he whispered.

She looked into his eyes a moment longer then lowered her head and resumed playing with his chest.

He sighed contentedly and gave her shoulders a light squeeze. She snuggled in closer.

Some minutes later she asked, “When will you get promoted to sergeant?”

He barked out a surprised laugh. “Promoted to
sergeant
? Me? I don’t know.”

When he didn’t say anything more, she asked, “Why don’t you know?”

“Because…” He had to think for a moment. “Because I don’t know if the quarantine on Thirty-fourth FIST has been lifted yet. Or if it
will
be lifted.”

Again he stopped talking long enough that Jente had to ask another question. “What does the quarantine have to do with you getting promoted?”

He raised his head, but she wasn’t looking at him and all he could see was the top of her head. “Because the only way I can get promoted to sergeant is if a squad leader billet opens up. If the quarantine is still on, that means one of the squad leaders has to get killed to open up a position. And even then”—he paused briefly to think of who was ahead of him—“the platoon has three fire team leaders who are senior to me, who would get the promotion before I would. That means four Marines, men I’ve lived with and fought alongside for years, have to die or be too severely wounded to return to duty before I can get promoted.” He lowered his head and his voice dropped almost to inaudibility. “I hope I never get promoted if that’s how it has to happen.”

Claypoole didn’t notice the strain in Jente’s voice when she asked, “And what if the quarantine has been lifted, or is lifted soon?”

Claypoole shrugged with his free shoulder. “I don’t know. Most of us are well past our normal rotation dates. For all I know, I could get shipped to a FIST all the way across Human Space, or—
oooph
!”

Jente had doubled her fist and slugged him in the solar plexus as hard as she could.

“What?” he gasped. “Why’d you—”

She jumped out of bed, wrapping a sheet around herself.

“Get out!”
she screamed, and pointed at the bedroom door. “Get out of my house! Go away! I never want to see you again!” She twisted around and burst out crying.

“What? What’s the matter, honey?” Claypoole asked, getting out of bed and going to hug and try to comfort her.

She slapped at him. “Get away from me. Go away! Leave me alone!”

“But, Jente, I—”

“Go!”
she screamed.

“But…” he objected, looking around for his clothes.

“Just go.” She stormed into the bathroom and slammed the door. “Go away or I’ll call the police.”

Claypoole continued to entreat her while he pulled on his clothes, but her only response was a demand that he leave or she was going to call the police and have him arrested for breaking in and assaulting her. Thoroughly confused, he left. He used his comm to call for a taxi and took it into Bronnys, and had it let him off at Big Barb’s.

When Corporal Claypoole entered Big Barb’s he didn’t find anybody from third platoon there. Not that he expected to. He knew that any of the Marines from the platoon who were still in the place at mid-morning would be upstairs, sleeping off the previous night’s festivities. The rest were elsewhere in and around Bronnoysund, shopping, at an early vid, card playing in the minuscule, not-quite-legal casino, or in the town library. Possibly some were lounging along the fjord’s pebbly beach, or bantering with the fishermen. A few might even have gone out as day crew on one or another of the fishing boats. Bronnoysund was more than just Camp Ellis’s liberty town; it had been a long-established fishing village before the Confederation put a military presence next to it.

It was fine with Claypoole that none of the other Marines were available in Big Barb’s; at the moment, he didn’t want the company of his fellow Marines anyway. What he wanted just then was a strong drink—and Reindeer Ale wasn’t anywhere near strong enough. He chose a table from which he could see both the door and the stairs leading to the rooms above.

“Hi, Marine. What can I get for you?”

He looked up and didn’t recognize the face that went with the voice. Before answering, he gave a quick look around and what he’d seen when he entered finally registered on him; Big Barb’s was almost empty. Four serving girls were preparing the common room tables for the lunch crowd and a bartender busied himself with bottles and polishing glasses; Claypoole was the only customer.

He looked up at the girl. “I thought I knew everybody who works here. What’s your name?”

“Gina. I’m lunch shift. What’s your name?”

He studied her face for a moment: pretty, broad, dark, but the darkness looked more like genes than exposure to the sun. He gave himself a shake. “Call me Rock,” he said.

“All right, Marine Rock, what can I get for you?”

“Get me a double, a double…” His voice trailed off. He couldn’t think of any liquor because he almost always drank beer. “I want something strong. What do you recommend?”

Gina raised an eyebrow at him. “Bad night?”

Claypoole opened his mouth to say, “Yes,” but reconsidered. “No, I had a real good night. It’s the morning that was bad.”

“Umm-hmm. I’ll ask Rhon,” she said nodding toward the bartender, “what he recommends as forget-it juice.”

“Whatever he recommends, I want a double.”

“You got it.” Gina’s hips swayed as she headed for the bar. Claypoole squeezed his eyes closed and turned his head away. After the unexpected and incomprehensible way Jente had kicked him out, he really didn’t want to even look at another woman. What on earth had set her off? Had he said something wrong? He ran the conversation through his mind for what must have been the tenth time since he left her farmhouse, and couldn’t think of a thing he might have said that was out of line.

Gina was back quickly with a tumbler of something deep amber. “Rhon says it’s his own concoction and he hasn’t given it a name, but it begins with a base of strong rum and gets stronger from there.” When Claypoole went to take the glass from her hand, Gina snatched it back. “Rhon also said to tell you that it’s deceptively smooth, so you should take it easy.” She placed the glass on the table in front of him, and stepped away, glancing over her shoulder at him.

Claypoole’s gaze followed Gina for a moment as she busied herself preparing other tables, then he turned to the tumbler of deep amber liquid and lifted it to his lips. He took a sip and his eyes widened; the fluid flowed easily over his tongue and down his throat. It barely burned when it hit his stomach. He took a mouthful, swished it around, and swallowed. In a moment a comfortable warmth began to suffuse his body. He smiled for the first time since Jente had slugged him. Relaxed, he sagged back in his chair, and languidly raised the glass in salute to Rhon the bartender, then tipped the glass and drained it in two or three gulps.

Head lolling like a puppet with a broken string, he looked around for Gina, beautiful Gina, Gina who had brought him this wonderful ca-ka-concoction that made him feel so, so—so
good
when he’d felt so, so, so—
bad
! Gina, the marvelous woman who didn’t attack a man for no reason out of the blue. Blue? Tha’s right, outta the blue.
Gina!
the best damn—
woman
Big Barb ever hired! The fourth time his gaze swung by her, his eyes juddered to a stop, and he recognized her. Grinning broadly, he signaled for a refill.

Gina gave him a dubious look, then glanced at Rhon, who shrugged and began mixing another drink for Claypoole. When Gina went to the bar to get it, Rhon drew her into brief, whispered consultation. She nodded, then picked up the fresh drink and marched it to the wildly grinning Claypoole.

“You’re cut off after this one, Marine,” she said firmly.

He grinned innocently at her. “Tol’ you, call me Rock.”

“It doesn’t matter what I call you. You’re cut off after this one.”

“Wha’ eber you say, love.” He reached for her, but she’d already stepped out of reach, and he had to grab the table with both hands to avoid falling onto the floor. More or less stable, he lifted the glass with both hands and drained half of it without spilling too much down his chin. He barely got the glass back on the table before he began swaying too much to keep a firm grip on it.

With much cautious twisting, turning, and shifting about on the chair, Claypoole propped his elbows on the tabletop and laid the top of his chest against the table’s edge. Squinting to focus, he gripped the glass with both hands and lowered his head until his grinning mouth was in contact with the rim of the glass. Gingerly, as though lifting something of immense value and incredible fragility, he raised himself, holding the glass in a three-point grip—both hands and his mouth—tipping his head and the glass back. Before he realized it, he was tipped back far enough that the liquor was flowing into his mouth. He kept tipping backward until he overbalanced and toppled to the floor.