Home Fires

by Gene Wolfe

  “You bribed the steward, I imagine.”

  “Not at all. I found your Ms. Blue in the infirmary, explained that I was your secretary and needed to speak to you privately, and promised to return her cabin card. She let me have it.”

  Skip removed Tucker’s Guide to Modern Military Law from the seat of his reading chair and sat. “I hope you’ll excuse me. It’s been a long day, and I’m tired.”

  “That’s what I’ve come to say, really. That I excuse you.”

  He nodded and thanked her.

  “A long day for me, too. I was seasick on the boat that brought us from Boca. Did Mr. Tooley tell you?”

  “That you were seasick? No.”

  Susan sat down on the couch. “I thought you’d have a thousand questions, and I’m prepared to answer every one I could dream up. Don’t you have any?”

  “I’m exhausted, as I said.” Skip hesitated. “There are two reasons for not quizzing you. May I explain?”

  “I wish you would.”

  “The first is that I’m not entitled to. You came with Mick—”

  “I joined him in Boca.”

  “I stand corrected. I thank you for that. I’m deeply indebted to you, just as I am to Mick and the rest of his party. I’m further indebted to you because you volunteered for the hold. We wanted women—attractive women who would fight, if fighting were necessary. You and Vanessa stepped forward, and I was stunned. I still am.”

  “What’s the second?”

  “I haven’t finished with the first, but as you wish. I don’t want to question you because I anticipate that any questions of mine would evoke tears and recriminations. I deserve both and more, I know. But I’m not looking forward to them.”

  “There are women who can cry whenever they want to,” Susan said. “I’m not one of them. There have been a lot of times recently when I wanted to cry. Sometimes I did, and felt better afterward. Sometimes I couldn’t. It’s like wanting to breathe when you’re under the water.”

  “You’re asking my permission to cry.”

  “Yes. I suppose I am.” She rose and wandered into the bedroom. “We had a nice cabin, but it wasn’t as nice as this.”

  “That was a different ship.”

  If she had heard him, she gave no sign of it. A few seconds later, she slid back one of the veranda doors and stepped outside. “It’s cooler out here.”

  He followed her. “It is, now that the sun’s low. Chelle and I opened them—this was the first night out—after we came back from dinner, but we were afraid to leave them open when we went to bed. That seems rather comic after everything that’s happened.”

  “After the hijackers.”

  He nodded. “Then Chelle went to bed with a guy she met at a party, and they left them open. I know that, because he jumped out of bed and ran out here when I came in. His name was Jerry, Chelle said. Jerry ran out here, knocking over a lamp, and jumped the railing. He may have hurt himself, I suppose, but I don’t really know.”

  “She cheats on you.”

  Skip shrugged. “I wouldn’t call it that. I cheated on her while she was gone.”

  “With me.”

  He nodded. “So I can’t complain. And I don’t. What was it you wanted to talk to me about?”

  “Maybe that’s the best way.”

  He waited.

  “Here’s what I was going to say. I was going to say that you had told me—once—what would happen when your Chelle came back. You had told me, but I hadn’t believed you. When I got you the train tickets to Canam, I still didn’t know.”

  He nodded.

  “When I found out why you’d gone up there, it knocked the props out from under me. That’s when I quit. I went into Mr. Ibarra’s office and cried my eyes out. He shut the door and let me cry as long as I wanted. Then he said he understood, and the firm would tell anybody who asked that I could walk on water.”

  Skip said, “Luis is a good man.”

  “Yes, he is. It stuck in my mind for some reason, that business about walking on water. And then somebody—I won’t tell you who—called and told me you were in trouble and Mr. Tooley had gone to Tamaulipas with a dozen men to help you, and they were going to hire mercenaries and buy a boat. So I went too. I met them there, about an hour before they sailed.”

  Skip nodded. “I owe you a great deal. I believe I’ve said that already, but I’ll repeat it.”

  “You don’t owe me one damned thing, Mr. Grison. I couldn’t help doing what I did.” Susan’s hands writhed in her lap. “I love you. It’s something I can’t control. Would you rather I stayed away?”

  “It might be better if you did.”

  “I … understand. Can I tell you what I was going to tell you? I was going to say I love you, and I’m sorry I got all upset and quit. But I did and that’s that. Only if you ever want me, I won’t be hard to find. I was going to say you could stay with your contracta, but sometime you might remember the cruise or the skiing vacations. If you did—I’m not saying this, it’s just what I planned—all you’d have to do is call me.” Her laugh held no merriment at all.

  He said, “I’m glad you’re not saying that.”

  “So am I. I’m getting a little of my pride back, or that’s how it seems to me. I’ve had some time now, and I’ve been terribly seasick. Being seasick puts everything in perspective. I’m still an attractive woman, or think I am.”

  “You are.”

  “So I’m going to try to find somebody. Somebody nice who wants to contract.”

  Skip nodded.

  “Somebody who’ll love me, poor dowdy little Susan, the way you love your Chelle.” Susan took a deep breath, held it, released it, and took another. “So this is what I’m really saying, Mr. Grison—it doesn’t bother you that I’m not calling you Skip?”

  He shook his head. “Call me whatever you like.”

  “What we had for nine years and eighty-seven days is over and done with. I’m not going to try to restart it. If you try to, it won’t work. Mr. Ibarra promised he’d give me good references.”

  Skip said, “So will I.”

  “I’m sure, but I don’t want them. There are a million women out there trying to land secretarial jobs, women working as waitresses and maids who have business degrees. A lot of them have wonderful references. I know some who are posted on every website in the world and have spammed out résumés by the thousand. Women who offer to go to the north coast at their own expense for one interview. I’ve got thirteen years with Burton, Grison, and Ibarra. May I come back? Please?”

  Skip nodded. “With no loss in seniority. I’ll see to it.”

  “Thank you. Thank you, Mr. Grison.” The words were scarcely audible.

  “You won’t have to come back as my secretary, Susan. I realize that—”

  “I want to! That’s exactly what I want. It will be all business, I promise, and I’ll be the best secretary anybody ever saw.”

  “You always were. Do you really want your old job back?”

  “Yes! You—you said you needed women who’d fight if necessary. I’ve still got the gun Mr. Tooley gave me in Boca. Look!” Susan’s hand went to her holster. “Tell me to shoot a couple of those hijackers, and they’re dead. Order me to do anything you want done, Mr. Grison except—except what…”

  “I won’t,” Skip said quickly. “Now take your hand off your gun.”

  Susan did, and sat down on the bed.

  He went to her. “You’ve become what you told Chelle you were. It’s a business relationship, a permanent one, and that’s how it’s going to stay. Let’s shake hands.”

  Susan’s hand seemed damp, weak and a trifle too small, and he realized with a start that he had already grown used to Chelle’s. Feeling awkward, he cleared his throat. “Now that you’re my confidential secretary again, I want to ask you a question. It’s a delicate matter, so don’t tell anyone I asked.”

  “Of course not.”

  “If you know anything, if you have even the smallest scra
p of information, I want it. No matter how trivial it seems.”

  Susan nodded. “Yes, sir.”

  “Have you ever heard of a woman named Jane Sims?”

  For a fraction of a second, it seemed him that Susan had recognized the name; there had been, he felt, a flicker in her eyes, a slight tightening of her mouth. Then she said, “No, sir. Who is she?”

  “She’s a woman Chelle mentioned. I don’t want to pry, but it’s something I may need to know. So I’m trying to find out.”

  “What about Boris?”

  “I’ve got him looking already. Are you sure you didn’t recognize the name?”

  “Yes, sir. Unless you mean Jane Simmons. I used to know a Jane Simmons.”

  “You’re no longer in touch with her?”

  Susan shook her head. “Not for years, sir. We were never really close. She contracted with a woman in the rapeseed oil business, and they went off to someplace in Asia.”

  “I doubt that she’s my Jane Sims.”

  “So do I. You said you were tired, sir. If you’d like to lie down…?”

  “I’d like to, but I can’t afford it. I was going to take a long, cold shower, then go back to the infirmary to see Chelle. Since you’ll be going there, we might as well go together.”

  * * *

  It was on J Deck, aft. The middle-aged nurse at the reception desk said, “You want to see Chelle Blue? Both of you?”

  Skip nodded. “I’m Chelle’s contracto, and this is my secretary, Susan Clerkin. We need to talk to her together. It won’t take long.”

  “Ms. Clerkin was here…” The nurse pressed buttons and studied her screen. “At fourteen thirty-five. Weren’t you one of the people who brought Ms. Blue in?”

  Skip nodded again.

  “Well, I can’t let both of you in together.”

  “Yes, you can. Ask Dr. Prescott.”

  The nurse frowned. “He’s not here.”

  “In that case, I’ll have him paged.”

  “Are you going to be long?”

  In the end they were admitted, and found Chelle in bed with her head swathed in bandages and her right arm in a cast. She tried to sit up, and did when the nurse cranked up her bed. “This is great! Got my cabin card?” Her grin made Skip want to turn away.

  Susan held out the card. “Here it is. I’m glad we didn’t wake you up.”

  “Not a bit! I was just staring at the ceiling and trying to figure out how I’d like to die. Fighting, sure. But would I want to know it’s coming, so I could get ready? How much time? Stuff like that.”

  Skip said, “That doesn’t sound healthy.”

  “Sure it is—takes my mind off my troubles. I got blown all to hell up on Johanna, maybe I told you.”

  Skip nodded.

  “That was one hell of a lot worse than this. This is kid stuff. The dentist says not to eat anything tough for a while and my teeth should root again, or whatever you call it. Not come out. I got a scalp wound and they’re bleeding bastards, but it’s been sewed up good and they gave me a transfusion. I’ll be back on the field in the third quarter.”

  Skip said, “What about your arm?”

  “It’s busted, that’s all—simple fracture of the humerus, so there’s a titanium plate and a bunch of screws in there now. One of those bastards hit me with a crowbar. See this black dingbat in my cast? High-frequency sound, with all the best undertones and overtones. It’ll heal fast, and it’s been splinted and pinned already.”

  Susan said, “Is there anything that we can do for you?”

  “Yeah. Yeah, there is. That white box in the corner? My stuff’s supposed to be in there, only I’m not supposed to get out of bed. Look inside, and see if you can find my gun. The nurse says it’s in there, but who the fuck knows? I’d like to check on her.”

  Skip opened the cabinet and pointed.

  Susan said, “Yes, it’s right here.”

  “Hold it up, okay? Don’t touch the trigger.”

  Susan did.

  “Great. Bring it over here. I just want to hold it for a minute.”

  Susan hesitated, then looked her question at Skip.

  He nodded.

  “I’m not going to shoot anybody. I just want to feel it.”

  Skip took the gun from Susan and put it into Chelle’s right hand.

  “That’s great.” Chelle’s smile warmed him.

  “What is it?” Susan asked. “I don’t know much about them.”

  “A Springfield MIL 31-3. It’s got everything you need and nothing you don’t—high capacity, a comp that hides flash and doesn’t knock your ears off, ambi safeties, flat trajectory, lots of knockdown, and a jewel of a trigger. Was that old lady magic, Skip? Or was I?”

  “Tante Élise? Both of you, I think.”

  Chelle turned back to Susan. “You went down into the hold to get me, didn’t you? Somebody said that.”

  She nodded.

  “You had a gun? Do you still have it?”

  “I … Yes. It makes Mr. Grison nervous, but I do.” After a moment she repeated, “I don’t know very much about them.”

  “So you think people like me, people who love their guns, are nuts. I’ve used a gun to save my life. That’s the difference. They’d sent us some new ’bots, and they were good but it was desert camo. They might as well have been bright yellow, and they got picked off pretty fast. We were supposed to come in behind them—”

  The middle-aged nurse in the office outside had raised her voice, “You can’t! Don’t you listen?”

  The words of the reply were indistinct but its tone was unmistakable. A moment later, the door opened and a lean man in a tweed jacket stepped through. He shut the door firmly behind him and held it shut with his heel. “Bureaucrats!”

  Skip said, “Chelle, this is Rick Johnson. He came with Mick Tooley and was one of your rescuers.”

  Susan added, “Came prepared to fight. He has a gun like yours.”

  “Not quite,” Johnson said, “but it’s a good one. You’re Mastergunner Blue, ma’am?”

  “Sure.” Chelle grinned. “But I’m not really holding a gun on these folks. I just wanted to see it and make sure it was safe.”

  “I understand.” Johnson was studying Chelle’s gun. “There’s no reason for you to trust me to keep it for you, but I will if you want me to.”

  “So will I,” Skip said.

  “Thanks.” Chelle moved the gun from her right hand to her left and gave it to him butt-first. “With three of you here, I’ve got a great chance to ask about the other guys who went into the hold.” She paused. “Not your bunch. Sergeant Kent-Jermyn’s and mine. Some didn’t come out alive. I know that. Does anybody know which ones made it out?”

  No one spoke.

  “From my bunch or the earlier bunch?” Chelle looked from face to face.

  “I can’t tell you,” Skip said. “I know we freed some, but I’m not sure how many.”

  “When I was down there,” Johnson said slowly, “we got out four, I believe. Four alive, not counting you. Three had to be carried.”

  “I saw them,” Susan said.

  “I took down seven,” Chelle’s voice had sunk to a whisper. “Somebody said there were eight in the first bunch.”

  Skip nodded. “That’s what I was told, too.”

  “What about Don?” To hear her, Skip had to bend until his ear was almost at her lips “Don Miles? Does anybody know about Don?”

  Outside, a shrill new voice argued with the nurse: “But she’s my daughter!”

  An explosion shook the ship.

  REFLECTION 10: Susan Clerkin

  When did I see her first? I really have no idea. There’s the secretarial pool, normally of five girls. The juniors have secretaries only when they require them, drawing a girl from the pool at need. Someone—was it Hal Hutchins?—drew Susan, and she straightened out a mess that ought to have taken a week in half a day.

  I marked her then, serious, short and a little plump, blond and attractive. Mrs. Ross
o got pneumonia, and I got Susan to fill in for her; by the time Mrs. Rosso came back, Susan was better than Mrs. Rosso had ever been. The UEA had been after us to hire more people, so I kept her on as Mrs. Rosso’s assistant.

  She has a mind for detail, which is what I’ve always needed, and is (or was) loyal to a fault. I took her out to lunch at first, a reward for good work—then out to dinner. She must have sensed that I was attracted to her; I’ve never known whether she was attracted to me.

  Apparently she was. Just now, I saw how she looked at Rick Johnson; and I wondered whether she had ever looked at me like that. There was a time …

  I remember it now. I’d been writing something. I sent it, and saw Susan watching me from the doorway, her face expressionless and her eyes full of dreams. It frightened me a little, but it took me years to understand why.

  * * *

  All the women knew before I did. Una Quin’s secretary told Una, and Una told me. I can still see her, grinning over her coffee cup. “You must like blondes.”

  I said I did, and that she must have seen the picture on my desk.

  “Well, blondes like you.” She winked. “That ought to be a lot more fun.”

  I knew who she meant at once, said I didn’t believe it, and as soon as I had said it wondered whether I could be wrong. On one hand, it seemed impossible that any woman could be attracted to me, an attorney nearing—no, let’s be honest. Just a middle-aged lawyer, not quite tall, with little enough to offer any woman beyond a quick mind.

  Yet I had learned in court to speak directly to the female members of the jury. (How many men must have died at the end of a rope when juries were all male!) Look them in the eye, move from one to the next, and linger longest with the least attractive.

  Passion and conviction will win the case. They always do.

  Chet and I sitting in the courtroom with the accused between us. Chet looking at his watch and winking. “We’ll adjourn at five.” I nodding and grinning, knowing that at five, when our client had caught a cab, Chet and I would go to the Front Office and he’d buy me a vodka-and-tonic.

  Knowing too that when I had finished my summing-up, two jurors had looked back at me. Knowing that the smiles had been friendly. Middle-aged women, both of them; women I had talked to like a lover as I paced back and forth in front of the jury box. Telling them about the flaws in the prosecution’s case, warning them that the police, too, want a conviction and describing the kinds of things the police do to get one.