Torbin felt a growing lump in his throat. I will not cry, he thought. I am a tough Marine. I will not cry.
Ichiro saved him. “Abby, I have something that…Ester Smith asked me to save for you. Please do not be angry. I talked with her and I know she knew nothing of what was done to you. Your rejection of her was… devastating. Please believe me.”
Abigail turned and looked into the eyes of the man she loved, would love forever. She moved from Torbin and hugged her husband.
“Ichiro, I could never be really angry with you. A bit irritated, but never truly angry. “
“Do you believe me then Abby? That I know Mrs. Smith knew nothing about what the Prophet did, and had done to you?”
Abigail kissed him full on his mouth. “You’ve never steered me wrong yet. So yes, I believe you.”
With that, Ichiro untangled himself from Abigail’s hug. With a slow and gentle touch, he took a familiar gold cross on a gold chain from his pocket. Abigail saw it, and looked into Ichiro’s eyes.
“You’ve kept this these past weeks.”
“Yes, my love. I know it was given in love. I did not want to see it thrown away.”
“Now I have another reason why I love you so, my samurai.”
As Ichiro held up the cross and chain, Abigail looked at Torbin. “If my husband has no protests, I would like you to put in on me, as you did the first time in Deseret.”
“Yes, Torbin, please,” Ichiro interjected. “It will complete the circle.”
Torbin took the cross and chain in a careful grip, placed it around Abigail’s throat, and secured with the clasp. Abigail turned and faced him, then looked at the cross.
“It does look good on me.” She looked up, then kissed Torbin’s cheek.
“I’ll always be indebted to you, big brother.”
“Hell, Abigail. Family does not collect debts. We do things for each other because we are family. In this day and age, family is not just by blood. It is by choice.”
“And I chose you, blood brother,” Ichiro said as he clasped Torbin’s hand. “Thank you for introducing me to the love of my life. I am the one who will always be indebted.”
“And now that we have had this meeting of the mutual admiration society,” Aleks jumped in.
“There is a party going on. Bride and groom are supposed to enjoy themselves. Then, leave, and really enjoy themselves in the bridal bed. You three are holding up progress.”
Abigail laughed, then grabbed and hugged Aleks.
“Ouch! Damnit Abigail, watch the ribs. You’re right, Torbin. She must have been a female weightlifter in a prior life.”
“Which is why I married Ichiro, big sister. He is strong enough to take it.”
Aleks smirked at Ichiro after Abigail released her from the hug. “We will see if that is true after a night of passion. I expect a full report.”
Ichiro’s eyes widened, and embarrassed, he began to stutter.
“A full report? I, I, I,…”
Torbin began to belly laugh. “She is bullshitting you, my friend. She does that to me… Ow! Quit with the stiffened fingers to the ribs. Why did I have to fall in love with a Russian spy?”
“Karma,” said Aleks, as she grabbed her husband and kissed him deeply.
Libations and refreshments flowed. Russians, fueled with vodka, began to do their kicking Cossack dances on the dance floor. New Vikings joined in with traditional active polka dances. And of course, the younger generations of Americans and Japanese began to demonstrate new variations of older rock and roll gambols/frolics as everyone used the occasion to celebrate life.
Around the Free Nations, others were having their own parties as they watched the broadcasted festivities, for this was a celebration of life and freedom for all humanity as well as a thumb in the eye to the Tschaaa.
Before it had dissolved into a disorganized mass of partiers, Commander Dark Wolf, along his Cousin James and Running Deer had presented Abigail and Ichiro with one final gift.
“From all the surviving Native Peoples, this large blanket is a tapestry recording all your adventures, Abigail Yamamoto. As well as those with Ichiro and the late Sergeant Fuzz. It will bring you good luck and give you something to warm you children with as you tell them of your life.”
Abigail had blushed. “I am barely married and people are already talking about children.”
“It is meant to be, my warrior sister,” Running Dear said. “They will grow strong, and you can bring them to our homes, our fires, to play with our children. Thus, we will always be a special tribe.”
After profuse thanks, more hugs from Abigail, the three mounted militia joined the main group of revelers.
“So, they will have children, bring them to our lodges, campfires?” James Dark Wolf asked Running Dear.
“Yes. I feel the Great Spirit wishes it. The conflicts of the past will disappear into history. We are all One People now—not red, white, black, brown or yellow.”
Commander Dark Wolf had put his hand on her arm. “You are wise beyond your years, young lady. Now, let us grab some more refreshments before the Russians eat and drink them all. These Cossacks are like our dog soldiers of old. They will eat and drink you out of house and home if given the chance.” The three Native Peoples laughed and went toward the diminishing refreshments.
In the midst of the celebration, Sergeant Tapua Tatupu, one of the surviving heroes of the Key West nuke attack, lunged to the center of the dance floor. On either side of him was one of his fellow South Sea Islanders. As a drum and someone beating on a log began to set the beat, Tatupu began a special Manu Siva Tau Samoan war dance, a Haka to Maori, which he had developed over the past weeks. Called the Squid or Kraken Killer Dance, it started out as the body slapping, strong arm gestures and bent knee stomps that were the characteristics of all the Island People’s traditional warrior dances, meant to intimidate the enemy and create more resolve in their own warriors.
Then the influences of the current generations of survivors came to fore. Moves stolen from Michael Jackson’s Thriller and other music videos long since gone into private collections were incorporated, as well as some martial arts influences, creating a long and very active line dance. First the original three, then six, then a dozen, then two dozen men and women were moving as one, following Tatupu’s lead and adding some of their own flourishes. The military band arranged by General Reed to be there quickly caught on, increasing the beat provided by the drum and log to a deep roar. The original dance floor was soon packed, people moving tables to increase its size. Yet there were no crashes, no collisions. It was as if every human there had tapped into a primeval beat, one that was based in a spirit of survival and defeating the threat, the invasive Tschaaa.
Abigail turned toward Ichiro. “It is tradition in America for the bride and groom to have a dance. What do you think?”
Ichiro’s face broke into a large grin. “What better way for two married warriors to dance than a warrior’s dance? Hai! Let us go.”
In a heartbeat the couple was on the floor. When Tatupu saw they were approaching, he soon began making a path for them to the front and center of the mass line dance, where he was.
“Make room for the bride and groom!” He bellowed. The crowded parted for Tatupu as the Red Sea for Moses. Abigail’s double slit wedding dress showed the reason behind its concept as she had no problem moving, kicking, flowing into various martial arts and traditional dance moves. Ichiro moved with her rhythm as if they had been dancing together for years. Soon, other dancers were stopping to watch the special couple.
Within a minute, it was just Tatupu and the married couple. Then, he stepped to the side, leaving the two dancers on the floor. Seeing they were now a solo couple, they faced each other, creating their own matched warrior dance. Then, in good old South Sea Islander and Maori tradition they ended, making the most horrible, tongue flashing warrior faces they could imagine at each other as they growled challenges. They clinched in a tight hug, followed by a dee
p kiss, the perfect couple.
The room exploded into shouts and cheers.
Torbin and Aleks looked on.
“Should have known,” said Torbin. “Mix a Samurai and an Avenging Angel, you’re going to get something special.”
He then noticed Aleks had begun to cry a bit. He put his arm around her.“What’s wrong, babe?”
“Oh, nothing, you big lout. These are tears of joy. This wedding had been so perfect, so happy, uplifting… Hell, I’m running out of words.”
Torbin turned her to face him. “You want something like this, on our anniversary someday? I could arrange it…”
“No. That is not I meant. Our ceremony was just fine. I need no large celebration to know I made the right decision, to know how much I love you.” She kissed him, long and passionately.
“Our two beautiful sons are celebration enough for me, my crazy Marine.”
“The term is handsome. Boys are handsome, girls are beautiful. I’ll learn you American yet.”
Aleks gave him a gentle slap on the chest. “Always the jokester. Our love is no joke. Neither is the love of Ichiro and Abigail. It is a love story for the ages.”
“The Russian poet is coming out in you again, my love. I would say both of ours are loves for the ages. We have found this love despite all the adversity, pain and death around us. Love like this is the good side of humanity. It is our hope for the future.”
Aleks smiled. “Now who is waxing poetic? I guess my Russian soul is rubbing off on you.”
Torbin stared into her eyes. “You are part of my soul. Just as Ichi and Abby’s souls are now part of each other. Not even death can change that.”
Aleks crushed her love to her body. “You are going to make me cry again, you big oaf. What am I do with you?”
“Love me forever. As I will you.”
Stalin stepped out into the fresh air in front of the large hall, and pulled a cigar from inside his military tunic. As he began to light it, he saw the statuesque figure of Dogman also exit. “Mr. Dogman. You are leaving?”
Dogman turned at the sound of his name being called. He stopped and looked at Stalin.
“Dogman. Just Dogman.” The large man paused. “As you are Stalin. Just Stalin.”
“True, my friend. Two men with just one name.”
Dogman sniffed. “Romanians don’t really like Russians. Thanks to you, we had Communism, Ceausescu.”
Stalin shrugged. “Old history. I would apologize if I had anything to do with that, but I didn’t.”
He puffed on his cigar. “But we must be friends because we have a very special person who binds us. Your niece Abigail, who is my Lady of Steel. We must make sure she has a happy life, many children. Yes?”
Dogman stared for a moment, then grunted, stepped toward the Russian. “You speak common sense, for a Russian.”
Stalin laughed. “Here. I have an extra cigar, my fine and large new friend. Share one with me. I guess American Indians like our Cheyenne allies would say I am offering you a peace pipe, to smooth over past wrongs.”
“Okay,” Dogman said. He took the offered cigar, lit it with the offered Zippo lighter and began smoking. “So why the name Stalin?” he asked.
“It means steel in Russian. That is what I had to become to survive. The original Stalin was ruthless, but his strength was legendary. Now you. Why Dogman?”
Dogman puffed his cigar. “Nice cigar. Dogman is who, what I am. Dogs are my family, my people.”
“Except for Abigail, my friend.”
Dogman paused, then answered. “Yes. She is family.” He stared hard at Stalin.
“You meant what you said about Little Abby?”
“Yes, I did. I must help someone who can beat me with a bayonet and rifle. She is special, and has a good soul a mile wide.”
Dogman took his cigar in his left hand and stuck his right out to the shorter man. “Shake. You agree to help protect her. Like Torbin Bender did.”
Stalin chuckled. “I did not realize you have made similar agreements. But yes, it goes without saying. I will always have her back, come to her aid. As I have said. She is special to me. Not to mention a lot of my fellow Russians.”
“I expect people to keep their word.”
“And you are a hard man, Dogman. But I have never gone back on my word. Unless I
was dead.”
Dogman stared for moment. Then, a small smile formed on his face. “You have a sense of humor, I see.”
“But of course, my new Romanian friend, A sense of humor helps you to survive in Siberia. Now, can I interest in sharing some vodka?”
“I must check on my dogs in the RV first.”
“I am in no hurry. Vodka does not spoil. So, please, check away.”
At that moment, two beat up vans pulled up on the street in front of the large hall. Dogman and Stalin both watched as some ten scruffy and scraggly individuals piled out of each of the vans. Judging by the way they staggered a bit, and the loud banter they threw back and forth, Stalin could see they were all very well lubricated. As they approached up the walkway, Stalin stepped forward.
“Can I help you, my fine inebriated scavengers?” Stalin had quickly recognized who and what they were. He knew they were not on the guest list.
“We want into the party, buddy.” A good sized woman stepped forward, her eyes the blurry and bloodshot type of one who had been drinking alcohol for quite some time.
“Well, my young woman, the hall is already filled to capacity. But I understand some of the local bars have… “
What’s the matter?” the woman interrupted. “The bitch and her friends too stuck up to party with us?”
“Shut up.” The loud growl came from Dogman. Several pairs of drunken eyes fixed on the large man with the cut physique.
“What’s your problem, asshole?” One of the men stepped forward, just as drunk as the woman.
“My very large friend here is the uncle of the Bride, You might want to…” Stalin was unable to finish his warning when the female broke in again.
“What’s matter, big man? Don’t want anyone to fuck with your private piece of family ass?”
Dogman began to move forward but Stalin beat him. The woman croaked as a left hand of granite crushed her throat, Stalin flicking his cigar into the face of the vocal male scavenger. The Russian let out a shrill whistle. From out of the shadows four Spetsnaz troops with AKs stepped, the assault rifles laser sights flickering across the chests of the small drunken mob.
“I will say this once,” Stalin’s voice boomed. “Leave, or suffer. Maybe death, maybe just maiming. But you will all suffer.”
Time stood still for a few moments, as everyone seemed frozen. Stalin then loosened his grip and shoved the woman backwards into her comrades. She fell to her knees gagging and choking. The man who had received the cigar in his face was rubbing a spot where the lit end had singed his skin. He stared at the four Russians with their weapons at ready.
“Fire, Comrade Stalin?’ One Russian called out in his native tongue.
“Nyet, comrade. Not yet.” Stalin fixed the man with the singed face. “Well? Your choice.”
The man paused, then motioned to his companions. “Come on. Most of the booze and food is probably gone. I know of a bar downtown that will like our business.”
The group of ne’er-do-wells walked away, grumbling. But none of them thought some free food and drink was worth getting shot over. They were soon trying to squeal the tires of the vans as they accelerated away.
“You had them posted all along, didn’t you Stalin?”
Stalin shrugged. “With due respect, my new friend. I did not need a handshake with you to know what my duty was to Abigail. I have known since she first schooled me on a parade ground with cold steel. My Lady of Cold Steel. That is who she is to me.”
Dogman paused for a moment, then spoke again. “I have some Busthead in my RV, Homebrew moonshine from the Columbia River. I’ll put it up against your vodka any day.”
/>
“This I have to see.” Stalin turned to the four Spetsnaz. “Keep an eye out, then get someone to relieve you. I know there is some vodka and food left. Nice women you will have to find on your own.”
The four soldiers laughed, then said in unison, “Da, Comrade Senior Training Instructor.”
Please, lead on Dogman.”
“You’ll get to meet my family, Stalin. Dogs like you, yes?”
“Well, my friend, Sergeant Fuzz seemed to.”
“We will drink a toast to him, Stalin. And I have a Cuban for you to smoke.”
“Ah. A friendship made in heaven. Good tobacco, good drink, good company. And I have a good woman waiting for me. God shines on me today.”
It was nearing “that time”, the time when the Bride and Groom needed to exit the festivities in order to begin their new life together on their honeymoon, as husband and wife. Aleks and Torbin began to gather up the wedding gifts to be taken to Abigail’s quarters next to theirs. Thus, the gifts could be watched while the happy couple enjoyed the bridal bed together without any outside distractions or worries. Woe behold anyone thinking of walking off with a wedding gift. If they were not bit, stabbed or shot in the attempt, Aleks had said she would personally castrate them as she would a pig. The festivities would continue after they left, as there was still plenty of food and drink. Besides, big parties were rare in post-Strike Earth. People enjoyed them when they could. Any leftovers would be saved for the division of personnel guarding the area. Any attempt at a Tschaaa disruption would be met with extreme prejudice.
Ichiro then appeared, holding a long three string instrument, which looked a bit like a cross between a banjo and a guitar. He walked to the center of the dance floor and one of his Junior Officers came up with a tall stool. As people began to turn and watch, Ichiro’s voice rang out. “I have prepared a special gift for Abigail, the love of my life, on this most special occasion. I have composed a musical piece on my shamisen, a traditional Japanese string instrument.”
Abigail looked at him in a quizzical manner, said aloud. “I didn’t know he played an instrument.”
Typhoon of Steel Page 29