Crossover

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Crossover Page 33

by Joel Shepherd


  "I suppose you've been getting nailed a lot as a civilian," Mahud suggested. Sandy restrained a laugh, and it came out as a giggle instead. She bit her lip, mortified.

  "I'm just so very talented, Mahud, I even make a better civilian than most civilians." Mahud ran his hand down across her hard, flat stomach.

  "You're just weird, Cap. I actually found the word for you—it's called 'nymphomaniac'. I found it in a dictionary."

  Sandy snorted. "Must have been one of those damn lousy Chinese-English dictionaries," she retorted. "A nymphomaniac is a woman whose uncontrollable sexual urges dominate every facet of her personality to the point of dysfunction. It's actually a throwback to the pre-diaspora days when male and female gender roles were so wildly different that the sexual politics became very extreme, and sex was considered the defining element of interpersonal relationships between men and women, in some societies to the exclusion of much else.

  "My sexuality's just a matter of getting horny a lot, that's just the way my brain is. There's nothing cultural or psychological about it at all."

  A silence from Mahud. Then, "I thought that's what it meant."

  Sandy gave him a frowning look over her shoulder. "That was in the dictionary?"

  He shrugged. "Pretty much."

  "What were you doing reading dictionaries anyway?" she asked with a smile as she resettled herself, a comfortable wriggle of buttocks against Mahud's pelvis. Felt movement there, which perked her interest considerably. He shrugged again.

  "We were going undercover. I'd never done an op like that before. I read up on lots of civilian stuff. Kept running into words I didn't know. That kind of thing." Sandy thought about that for a moment. Gazing out at the spreading gleam of sunlight, a slow crawl across tower glass. Busy morning air traffic, cruising and gliding the skylanes. Towers stretching off into the distance.

  "D'you like this city?" she asked him then.

  "Yeah." A short, comfortable pause. Sandy could almost feel him thinking without seeing his face. She'd almost forgotten how well she knew him. How well she'd known all of them. "Yeah, I do. I think I understand a bit more why you were always so interested in civilian stuff. I mean ... no, it's an interesting place. I'd like to see more of it."

  "It's not just civilian stuff," she replied, matching her palm to the back of his hand, absently toying. "That's an artificial distinction, civilian stuff, military stuff. It's all the same thing. What we do ... did, anyway, was a result of what went on here. Any military is just a reflection of civilian society, Mahud. We're no different." Mahud rested his mouth on the back of her head. Blew softly into her hair, a gentle sigh.

  "Damn you're smart," he murmured. "I don't see any of that stuff. I just see towers and things, and people dress different and act different."

  "D'you like that?"

  "Yeah. I think so. I mean, I don't really get the point of a lot of it ... and, I mean, they waste so much time on stuff, y'know? They need to get themselves organised or something, this whole city's running way below capacity."

  "But leisure time's a part of the economic system," Sandy replied, still fiddling. Mahud shook his hand clear, but Sandy retrapped it, entwining fingers. "It's an incentive for people to work harder, so they can play harder. Entertainment's worth more cash than a full fleet expenditure each year in this city. And it recharges brain cells. People here do knowledge-based work. They use their brains a lot, not like weapons drill where everything's automatic. They need more time off to recharge or they burn out. So it's all just as sensible as military systems really, it's just a different focus.

  "They're creating wealth here. We're just what they spend it on, like one of their infrastructure projects. We don't create anything. We just kill things."

  She could feel Mahud tense behind her. His hand stopped resisting her attentions.

  "But the war ... I mean, the war was ..." He trailed off. Sandy sighed. It was too much, she realised. Too much to dump on him like this. He respected her too much. Respected her opinions, valued her judgments. Trusted her, more than she would have considered healthy if their positions had been reversed. It was a great responsibility. She felt compelled to live up to it and show some compassion for the moment.

  "We did okay in the war," she sighed, rubbing his arm affectionately. "We did fine."

  Mahud tightened his arm about her, pulling her firmly back against his chest. His naked body pressed against her. Warm breath in her ear, face rested against her hair, watching the span of visible sky. They lay together for several lingering, unspeaking minutes, watching as the sun-gleam crawled to higher panes of tower glass and the air traffic soared and murmured.

  It felt very nice, that company, Sandy considered, warm against his skin and the soft, covering sheets. Perhaps too nice. Other thoughts swam to mind unbidden. Urgent and pressing. She sighed, feeling very, very reluctant.

  "What?" Mahud murmured by her ear.

  "Just... everything." An executive coupe slid by on a near lane, wide, curved and shark-looking. Her right eye tracked and zoomed, reflexive curiosity on a model she had not seen before. Impressive-looking design. Very Tanushan. "I mean, what are you going to do?"

  A brief, unhappy silence from Mahud.

  Then, "We have to talk about that now?"

  "When else should we talk about it?"

  "Come on Cap, this is good down-time. I'm not expected to be anywhere until midday. We can't move around when we're trying to lay low. And now you're here." He trailed a hand back down her stomach again. "Don't spoil it."

  "Mahud, are you going to keep working with these people?" The hand strayed lower, reaching between her thighs. "Hey." Sandy's voice was firm, although she made no attempt to move his hand. "I'm serious."

  "Me too." The fingers probed, gently stroking. Sandy winced. He knew exactly what she liked, and how. Bastard. She twisted half about within the covers, and gave him a very flat, very sombre stare. Mahud looked pained. The fingers withdrew. He sighed.

  "Mahud," she said gently. Firmly. "What are you going to do?" A moment of brief thought.

  "What do you think I should do?"

  "Mahud, I can't be your Captain for ever. You know what I'd like to see you do—I'd hope you'd leave these bastards and stay here with me. But it has to be your decision."

  "You said Dali wants to lock you up," he pointed out. "You want me locked up with you?"

  "Dali won't be in power for long. Six weeks at most. Hiding for six weeks is easy when everyone from the head of the CSA down are all determined not to find me."

  Mahud stared at her, realisation dawning slowly in his eyes, what she was asking. His look was disbelieving.

  "You want me to become a civilian?"

  "You make it sound like a disease."

  "Jesus Cap, I ... I dunno." Very unconvinced. Sandy rolled over to face him, head on the pillow alongside. "I'm a soldier." With pained conviction. "I don't know anything else."

  "I'm with SWAT right now. It's practically the same thing, just the uniform's different. I mean, I was kind of hoping for a nice, quiet programming job, but hell, I'll take what I can get." Mahud looked very dubious. And worried. And confused.

  "Oh come on, Mahud!" Exasperated, she put her hands on his shoulders, looking him intently in the eyes. "You can't go back to the League. They killed our guys. Murdered them. How can you ...?"

  "That's what you say," Mahud interrupted stubbornly.

  Sandy's eyebrows arched. "You don't believe me?"

  The confused look gave way to exasperation.

  "Christ, Cap ... I know your stuff about the reasons for this op is true, it all fits. What they did to you sucks." His eyes were fixed on hers, full of emotion. "But the other thing ... that's a lot to ask. You know that."

  Sandy did know that. He was right. It was a lot to ask of him. Probably too much.

  "Hell with that then," she said, climbing on top and straddling him, gazing into his eyes. "What about you, you want to keep working for these people? Knowing
what you know now?"

  He looked up at her kind of distantly, as if remembering things. The pain never left his expression. And she wondered, not for the first time, exactly what it was that he was thinking.

  "No," he said then, very quietly. "But I don't know what else I can do."

  "Mahud ..." she leaned down, forearms to either side of his head. Breasts touching his chest, nearly nose to nose. Her eyes were gleaming. "You can learn to live."

  Mahud stared. Nearly frightened. Concerned certainly. He looked so vulnerable. She didn't know whether to laugh at his confusion, scream at his indecision, or burst into tears at his poor, helpless expression. Highly trained, lethal combat-GI that he was, he still made her heart melt with his unassuming innocence. She didn't know whether to hug him or hit him.

  "It's good here, Mahud," she told him, her eyes alive with enthusiasm. "There are so many things to see! So many new things to learn. Some of the people I've met are really good. Once they realise you won't hurt them, they'll like you. You'll like them too, I promise. You could probably get a job training them on weapons and tactics—they're pretty good here, but they'd still learn a lot from you. They'd value you. It's completely different from Dark Star. People will respect you for more than just your rank, they'll like you for who you are. You'll never know what it's like until you experience it ..." She broke off as Mahud began to shake his head helplessly.

  "I just don't know if I..."

  "Shhhhh," Sandy told him, putting a gentle finger to his lips. "Just think about it. You've got a few hours. We can talk about it some more. I'll tell you anything you want to know."

  Mahud nodded silently. Not looking any less confused, but now focused more on her than the things she said. She kissed him gently on the lips and pulled back to consider him again affectionately. His eyes were so nice from this range. All of him was. But mostly, it was what she saw on his face, and in his eyes in particular ... he was Mahud, her comrade, her longtime friend and companion. He understood her rarely. But he was honest and conscientious, and whatever his shortcomings, he always tried to do the right thing.

  It was more than she could say for many of the straights she'd met. The ones who lacked the courage to confront their flaws. The ones who were smarter and ought to have known better, but didn't. The ones who should have grasped more than a limited, tape-trained mind like Mahud's, the ones who possessed intellectual faculties and training that far exceeded his limited experiences, but failed to put them to any good use. Given more years, and more experiences, she was certain that Mahud could grow in many ways. But even now ... well, she liked him fine just the way he was.

  Impulsively she kissed him again. Like a grown woman petting an irresistibly adorable puppy, the thought occurred to her and she nearly laughed. Smothered it with another kiss, and another. Mahud was hardly responding as she might have hoped. She paused, gazing down at him from a more comfortable range.

  "Sandy?" His voice was quiet.

  "What?"

  "I'm scared." She nodded, with a small, sad sigh.

  "I know." And settled down on top of him, wrapping him firmly in a warm, comfortable embrace, his arms enfolding her in return. "We all get scared sometimes. I know it's tough. But sometimes we just don't get a choice."

  "Will you look out for me?"

  "Of course," she murmured gladly against his shoulder. "I'll always look out for you. We've got something no civilian can understand. Probably no straight either. I'll always be there for you. Don't ever doubt it."

  They made love amid the tangled sheets as the golden morning spilled across the room and gleamed on the windows. Perhaps, Sandy managed to think as their bodies locked pleasantly together, she had been too prescriptive, too commanding, too Captain-like in her approach ... and recalled having told him, just moments before, that he would need to make up his own mind, and that she could not be his Captain forever.

  It was true, to a point. But for him to go back to the League, especially now that he knew what he did, could be suicide. They might monitor his changed behaviour, piece together the clues and decide him to be a liability, like all the others. There was no choice. The path was already chosen.

  And then Mahud rolled her over and gazed wonderingly into her eyes as he entered deep inside her and it was a full ten minutes before another single, coherent thought crossed her mind.

  * * * *

  Vanessa Rice sat on the sofa in her Santiello apartment, watching the news on TV while eating an early lunch of samosas and sauce. She wore her operational fatigues, drab-green slacks with pockets, utility belt, T-shirt under her regulation jacket. Her field boots were the second-smallest size the CSA had on inventory. Her guys often asked her which school-cadet she'd borrowed them from. She frequently replied by leaving a boot-print on one or another backside.

  The TV news spoke of absolutely nothing but the present constitutional crisis and the tumultuous events that surrounded it. There were legal experts dissecting the constitution, political debates between Union and Progress Party representatives over whether Dali was justified in taking his extraordinary step, and much excited speculation as to how it all fitted into the picture of the broader investigation into the 'Parliament Massacre', as it was now being called.

  Vanessa found it disturbing to watch, and spent much of her meal frowning as she chewed. It was disturbing because it revealed just how little the media actually knew about any of these matters. She lost count of the number of times that CSA operational policy was misrepresented, or the extent of the President's powers exaggerated, or events in the Federation/League conflict taken way out of historical and political context.

  Vanessa had never considered herself much of a political expert. Only now, watching the media's feeble efforts to make sense of the turmoil, did she realise just how much political knowledge she possessed and took completely for granted. It was a part of her everyday awareness as a SWAT unit leader. Political differences spilled into civil rights council debates, which in turn governed how much force she could use under specific situations, which in turn determined many of her operational considerations. It governed privacy laws, thus controlling CSA taps on network sources. It governed legal and procedural rules, the evidence required for an arrest and the legal framework within which her unit's operations were contained. However much she tried to focus solely on the tactical concerns, she could never entirely escape the political context. Strange how she'd always ignored the implications, and derided politics as something that neither concerned nor interested her.

  And the media, she thought as she bit into another crispy samosa, was about fifty percent business-oriented. Everyone knew that. Business or 'human interest'. Truth was, as Hiraki had said, nothing much ever really happened in Tanusha. The stock market rose, the city expanded, high-life celebrities went to court over divorce proceedings and occasionally some underworld types killed each other in brief, spectacular gun battles, some of which Vanessa had seen first-hand—three times she had participated in directly. But none of this had prepared the local media for the sudden explosion in constitutional, legal and historical complexity that everyone was presently up to their necks in. Some of the interviewer's questions were laughable.

  No damn wonder she'd wanted to join SWAT, Vanessa thought sourly as she finished her last samosa, wiping her fingers on her fatigue pants. It was a refuge from entrepreneurial greed and blind self-importance. A place where respect was earned, not bought, and big issues really mattered. Vanessa loved Tanusha, but sometimes she longed for a population transplant.

  Her audio implant beeped warningly and she pulled a headset from a jacket pocket. Equalised through the implant, finding the matching frequency ... and frowning when she failed to recognise it. Serious encryption. Seriously clever too, and subtle ... she searched, but found no clue to its origin. Audio only though. It should be safe. She received and felt the pattern tune into alignment with a tangible, melding click...

  "Nice implant Ricey," said a familiar vo
ice in her ear. "I think I recognise the pattern. When did you get it done?"

  "Cassandra?" She sat fully upright, silencing the TV. "Is this connection safe?"

  "Should be. I'll take my network interface back to the League and ask for a refund if it isn't." She sounded, Vanessa thought, to be in a most inappropriate good humour. "What are you doing?"

  "Right now?"

  "Yep. I'm sitting by a window watching the view, if that's any help."

  "I'm watching TV and I've just finished eating lunch," Vanessa replied, feeling slightly perplexed. "Where the hell are you? And more importantly, why are you in such a ridiculously good mood?"

  "Just got nailed," the GI replied. Vanessa could hear the grin in her voice and laughed in surprise. "You should try it some time."

  "I'd love to." With great sarcasm. "I only saw you about twenty hours ago—your genitals must work like a heat-seeking missile." Happy laughter from the other end. "Who with?" A short sigh. Prelude, Vanessa thought, to something more sober.

  "His name's Mahud. I was his squad commander back in Dark Star."

  "Oh." Humour faded. "So he's a GI?"

  "Yeah. High model. Nice guy, you'd like him."

  "I'm sure. Tell me everything."

  "Is that a tactical request, or do you just want to get off?"

  Vanessa smiled. "Business first. The rest can wait."

  "If you say so. Well first, obviously, he survived what the rest of my team didn't. Seems my superiors wanted to keep a few higher models for special operations during peacetime. Like this one. He was the main tactical coordinator on the attack to kill the President." Wow. Vanessa felt the breath catch in her throat. And wondered, in an instant of sudden fear, if Cassandra Kresnov was truly as sensible and stable as she seemed in person.

 

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