First Casualty (18 page)

“And she was properly scandalized,” Ray growled.

“No, she agreed. What is a good day for a wedding?”

Ray sighed; the day was too beautiful for this. Clouds floated on a soft breeze. Rowers swayed; trees rustled in full dress greens. It was too good a day to argue. He was sprawled on the grass after another long hour on the bars; Rita had put the wheelchair out of sight. He could almost believe it was last summer. But dreams were one thing, reality another. “Rita, I'm not in any shape to be a husband. No job, no... nothing.”

Ignoring the verbal slap, she picked up a flower and settled it behind her right ear. She wore the sundress; with the sun behind her, he could almost see through it.

“You look man enough for me,” she told him. Her eyes slid from his face to his exercise shorts. He glanced down; the bulge was growing far too obvious. He tried to cross his legs. He couldn't quite manage it yet.

“Let's see.” Rita grinned and grabbed for his shorts. If he hadn't been trying to cross his legs, he'd have reacted faster. She had his shorts down before he grabbed for them. By then, she'd yanked them over his sandals. For a moment she whirled them above her head like some trophy. Then, looking down at him and grinning at what she saw, she tossed his shorts away.

“Rita, the house.”

“Is blocked by the trees. It is time we talked this through, and I think I have you where I can finally talk to you.”

“Rita, I can't.”

“You look ready enough.” She fondled him.

“Rita, the plumbing may be willing, but the back is not behind it. I can't.” He choked on the words.

“That's not what your physical therapist says.”

“You've talked about this with him!”

“And why not? He told me exactly how we can do this.” She reached for her dress. In one fluid motion, she swept it up and over her head. It fluttered away on the breeze to land beside his shorts.

“Now, let me show you.” She stepped astride him.

“I don't think there's any more of you, you could show me.”

“Yes.” She bent at the knees, slowly lowering herself. One hand balanced her, the other hand guided him in.

Lost forever, he reached for her breasts.

“Oh, yes,” she said. “Oh, yes.”

* * * *

Later, she lay beside him. “So, what do I tell Mother?”

“You're going to tell your mother?”

“A date for the wedding. Could we make it soon? They're sending an entire division to Elmo Four-A, and I'd like to go as Senior Pilot Mrs. Longknife.”

He reached for her, pulled her halfway on top of him, let her breasts crush against him. “You may tell your mother anything you wish.”

“Good, because Father wants to talk to you tonight, and I'd rather he was talking to my fiancé than to some stranger.”

“Your father doesn't own a shotgun, does he?”

“Shotgun?”

“An ancient earth appliance often used as a marriage aid.”

“I've heard about those things. Maybe once I'm a married lady, I can get someone to sell me one.”

Ray measured the distance to his shorts. It was not too late to back out. This woman had been nothing but one startling surprise after another since he first saw her on the bridge of her transport. How could anyone go so quickly from efficient spacefarer to beguiling young woman? Marriage to her would be full of surprises. Hopefully less painful than those he'd found commanding the 2nd Guard. But just as he could not think, of not commanding the 2nd, he could not think of not loving Rita.

* * * *

Mattim had breakfast served to his “old folks” tiger team in his day cabin. He wanted to make sure they got one decent meal, even if it was wolfed down. “By the way,” he began blandly, “you know you're not the only science team on this problem.” He relished the dismay on every face—except Guns.

He snorted. “You found out about my brain trust. How?”

“That little snippet of a guard. She offered last night to run a major workup on the suns. Also told me in very precise details of the whopper I told the crew.”

“Ah.” Guns grinned. “The Kat who got away.”

Mattim glanced down his list. Guns was right; all but two or three were in his department. “How good are they, Guns?”

“Quite good. Of course, there're a few that aren't quite as good as they think they are, but time will educate them.”

“We need them now.”

“Then I suspect we need to adjourn to a mess deck. The wardroom would be better, if you don't mind turning a bunch of strikers loose in officer's country.”

“As a merchant skipper, I've issued midshipman warrants.”

“No can do here, Captain,” Ding said without hesitation.

Guns gnawed his lower lip. “Of course, sir, you are still a licensed merchant captain. I, for one, think these kids would be a lot easier to deal with if they were not part of my usual chain of command. If you gave them temporary midshipman ranks and assignments, it might avoid a lot of confusion.”

“Exec?” Mattim raised an eyebrow at her.

“I think it will be a bloody confusing chain of command any way you cut it, but I'll go along with you. Somebody once told me if you're going to screw up, screw up big.”

“That was my grandmother,” Mattim sighed.

The computer accessed the old Red Flag portion of his files, matched the names on his overtrained and underemployed list and printed out merchant midshipman warrants. When ordered, the kids reported to the wardroom, along with a dozen or so officers and chiefs that had been added to the “science” side of the ship for the duration. Mattim handed out the warrants. Ding swore them in. Then they got down to business.

“Any with experience in the theory of jump navigation or something close, join Lieutenant Commander O'Mally's team. If you're good with computers or image enhancement, Guns keeps you. The rest help Lieutenant Jagel analyze this system.”

“Are we homesteading?” came from the back of the room.

“No. Commander O'Malley has repeatedly told me that the gravity of the known systems acting on the jump points only accounts for eighty or ninety percent of their movement. I want to know if this system accounts for the missing twenty percent, or if we should be prepared for more. I'm open for other proposals for study. Write them up and hand them into the Exec. Any questions?”

“Do we get new uniforms, sir?”

Mattim studied the questioner, who'd jumped to attention before asking. He glanced at Guns, who rolled his eyes.
So this is one of them who had a bit to learn.
” We’ve got a damaged ship to repair. We'll see what we can do in our spare time.” He took a bite out of the words to show there shouldn't be any.

The questioner wilted back into her seat.

“Good. Let's get organized. I want action plans to me by oh-seven hundred tomorrow.” He hunted for Zappa, found her. “Looks like an all-nighter to me. And I'd like a team to run a full set of tests on the gas planets to see if we're headed for the right one. Good day, ladies and gentlemen. Have fun.”

* * * *

Two days after the supply run, the roof fell on Mary.

“Sergeant Rodrigo, report to Company HQ, pronto.”

From the look on the captain's face, all Mary's luck was sludge. He stood, glowering at a message flimsy as she reported in her best recruit manner. He left her holding her salute. “Do you have any idea why I'm to report to brigade tomorrow morning with you and a couple of your corporals in tow?”

“No sir.”

He tossed the message on his desk and returned her salute with a sour wave. “You ain't gone crying to your mommas?”

“No sir.”

“Yeah, most of you are too old to have mommas, and the young ones aren't any better than whores' trash anyway. Hear this, woman. You wrecked one officer's career and damn near killed him. You aren't wrecking mine. You bozos may have gotten a few pissant colonials to bug out. Next time they show up, they'll see how real marines do it. You hear me.”

“Yes sir.” Mary heard him loud and clear. She'd kept her platoon alive—most of them—and his ego was all bent and busted.
Fuck you and the tailpipe of what you rode in on.

“Dismissed, woman. And get cleaned up. Use some lipstick. Have one of those tramps show you if you don't know how. Make sure the rest of those stinking bums get a bath.”

The man expected her gone. She didn't budge. “Request permission to use one of the other platoons' facilities vans.”

“First platoon has its own.”

“Yes, sir, a sitting target for a rock.”

“I ordered you to dig it in. I've got a hard copy right here.” So it was cover his ass time.

“Yes, sir, but there is no location in the platoon area that provides reasonable protection. Us miners know our rocks, sir.”

The red was rising past his neck to his cheeks. Mary prepared for another blow. “Permission granted. Now get the hell out of my sight.”

There was some serious celebrating that night. Nobody had the foggiest idea what was up, but that didn't matter. They had the run of second and third platoon's showers— not just Mary and the three who were going with her, but all the platoon. They used the vans' showers until the hot water ran out, and were none too careful about the mess they made.

Later, as Mary settled herself deep into her fighting hole, she remembered the captain's order about lipstick. She'd forgotten. She didn't care either.

Thor brought Mattim the analysis of the system. It was over an inch thick. He looked up at Thor with a lopsided frown.

“The top page is the summary. You wouldn't believe some of the programs these kids have on their personal computers. One plugged his into the new antennae the Navy hung on the
Maggie
and damned if he didn't have this in no time. I figured you'd want the full report on hard copy. I got lost in it on the computer.”

“We're headed for the right one, I take it.”

“Yes, sir.”

* * * *

The watch woke Mary. She and the others gathered beside their holes and waited. At oh-four fourty five, a truck rolled up. “You folks pile in the back,” the driver said.

“Is the captain coming?” Mary asked.

“The command car'll get him at oh-six thirty. You wouldn't want an officer to miss out on his beauty rest?” Apparently the captain had done nothing to win a popularity contest among the drivers.

“Thanks for the ride,” Mary said. “Sorry about the hour, but a truck is just fine by us. We'll sleep.”

“We aim to please the good guys.”

By the time Mary climbed in, Lek and Dumont were already flaked out, snoring. Mary took them off net.

“You have any idea what's up?” Cassie asked.

“No,” Mary answered. She'd kept a few things back about the talk with the lieutenant. There was no reason to change now. Besides, how do you tell your friends that you may get a medal and a promotion for what they all did together? If it happened, it happened. If it didn't, Mary didn't want to have to eat her words.

They settled on the truck's floor and quickly fell asleep.

“Hey, folks, we're here,” the driver hollered, opening the tailgate. “You can take off your helmets. You got air.” From the looks of it, they had slept right through the base airlock. Mary glanced at the ceiling—bare rock.

“Looks safe enough,” she said, and cracked her helmet. Damn, the air smelled good. The mixture of machine oil, human sweat, and recycled air made her feel right at home.

Beside the driver stood a navy chief in khakis. “I'm Kawalski, Master Chief of the Brigade. I got some spaces reserved so you folks can change into dress uniforms.”

Mary let herself down from the truck bed and tried to think. “Uh, sir, we don't have any dress uniforms.”

“You can call me Chief, Sergeant. I work for a living just like you.” He looked them over; then a sparkle came to his dark eyes. “On the other hand, I can't think of a better uniform for an honest-to-God marine. You'll do just fine.”

“Can we see the lieutenant?” Cassie asked.

“Why not? We got half an hour. Don't want the officers to think we enlisted swine don't have anything better to do than wait around on them. Follow me.” They found the LT in his hospital room sitting in an unpowered wheelchair. He was in full dress blues and trying to figure out how to place his sword.

“I refuse to hold it in my lap,” he said, scowling.

“Let me take a crack at it, sir.” The chief measured the sword and the wheelchair with his eyes for only a second before he started loosening the leather harness that held the sword to the lieutenant's belt. At maximum extension, the sword hilt easily reached the handles on the chair. There it rested, clearly his. The chief started to wheel him up to the mirror; Mary stepped in to take over. While the lieutenant checked himself out, Mary could hear the chief doing his own check. “So that's the way it is. It's a damn good officer who can earn a medal and the respect of his sergeant.”

The lieutenant glanced up in the mirror. “They had their doubts. Right, Mary? Cassie?”

Mary blushed. “Damn right, sir,” Cassie answered.