Somebody’s got to get them ready. Why does it have to be me? Because they’re the only damned friends you have. And because you took the damned job. She put the book down, stood up, looked out through her blinds at the night. Two a.m. I should be asleep. Hard work in the morning. Dark out there, like the dark between the stars. When did I lose that dream? When did we all lose it?
No answers, as usual. Dreams die. That’s that. Stood looking in the mirror. Fine signs of exquisite physical conditioning; the Corps’ given me time for that, at least. A sense of satisfaction, seeing a ripple of muscle, six lovely little domes around her belly button, framed by plain white cotton briefs, a plain, stretchy white bra. Some of the girls wear GI green. Too stiff for me.
Tired face, though. Doesn’t look like me anymore, staring out through those wide brown eyes. Girl in the mirror looking for something. I wonder what?
She clicked out the light from the switch by the door and stood in the semi-darkness, pale light coming in through the half-open blinds. Faint sound like a dog barking in the distance. Has to be a stray. No dogs on base since the latest round of budgets cuts did away with K-9.
All right. Did you hear a sound or not? Do you want to check it out or just crawl between the sheets for two or three zees before you roll their asses out onto the floor for another lovely day of drilling and drumming? She opened the door and slid out into the night.
Darker here, rows of bunks no more than black shadows, framed by lesser darkness. Soft sound of people breathing. Gentle snores. The loud snorers we had at the beginning either disciplined or doctored, as need be. Funny how many of the midnight chainsaws turned out to be women.
Funny how they got used to sleeping among each other, too. God damned stupid training films almost making it worse, an edited version of Aliens that left out the sexual relationship between the two troopers, when every damned person on fucking Earth has seen the original ten times over.
Good point, though. Not men. Not women. Not straights. Not gays. People. Soldiers. Comrades in arms. Not that some of them didn’t get into each other’s arms a little more often than the Pentagon liked. Control the cable or not, people have been watching reruns of M*A*S*H for sixty-five years...
A whisper of cloth from a far corner of the room, gentle, repetitive sliding suddenly stilled, as if people were holding their breaths, waiting for her to pass. Probably a couple of comrades right now. Jolsen and Rodriguez? Most likely. Well. I’ll march their asses off in the morning, let them think a little bit about whether humping each other is worth humping rocks the next day.
Tired, are we? Now imagine how you’d feel if this was combat.
What fucking combat, Sergeant? Hasn’t been a real goddam war in thirty years.
Wait patiently, boys and girls. The time will come...
Over to the far end of the bunkroom now, over to where a little rim of light showed under the latrine door. Somebody being a little careless here, unless there’s a crapping soldier inside. Hand on the door, listening. Soft sounds. Gentle snuffling sounds. Crying? Hell. Not supposed to be any crying in the damned Marines. She pushed the door open and went inside.
Bright white fluorescent light. Clean checkerboard of black and white tiles. Clear mirrors. Shiny white porcelain sinks. Dull green walls, dull green stalls around the toilets. Men grumbling at the lack of urinals, but, just maybe, liking the idea they could pee without some asshole watching.
Half a bare footprint, red decal on the floor, printed in bright blood. A pair of GI fatigue pants crumpled by the open door of one of the toilet stalls. More blood, a couple of droplets in the middle of the room. Figure standing in front of one of the sinks, scrap of bloody cloth by her feet, her underpants. Standing there, hunkered over herself, doing something, shirttail handing down over a shapely bare rump.
Short-cropped, feathery gray-black hair. Richardson. Mandy Richardson. Almost ready for her first stripe.
Kincaid walked forward, reached out to touch her, looking over her shoulder. Woman jerking slightly, looking up at her. Eyes wide, reactive. One hand at her crotch, clutching a big wad of bloody toilet paper to herself.
“Are you all right?” Stupid-ass question. “This doesn’t look like it’s just an unusually bad period, Mandy.” Doesn’t look like she’s giving herself an abortion, either.
Whispered: “I’m sorry, Sergeant. I...”
Look into her eyes, then. Hard red anger there, raw anger of the sort that would eat you alive if you didn’t get rid of it somehow. She said, “You want me to take you over to sick bay?” Ask. Let her know she’s in control.
Fear then. Trouble. “No. I’m, uh...” A quick headshake, eyes closing briefly. “No.”
“Let me see.”
Clutching the now-soaked toilet paper tightly to herself. Still bleeding, whatever it is. “Look, I just want to...”
“Get over on the table, private. Let me look.” Stubborn resentment in those eyes now. “Either that or I take you to sick bay.”
Sudden defeat filling the eyes with agony. Shoulders slumping, back curved, hand with the toilet paper relaxing a bit, little rivulet of blood starting down one thigh. Tears in her eyes, eyes closing.
Softly: “Get up on the table, Mandy. Let me help.”
Teary eyes opening, looking at her. Angry: No one can help. But pleading, as well. Little girl looking to her mother...
Got her up on the table, hand pulled out of the way, gently fingering her crotch, pubic hair matted with blood that was starting to clot, like a mass of thick red jelly. Pulling labia apart, feeling the young woman wince. Biting her lip. Trying to be a brave little soldier, but...
Hmh. No real damage. Just a scratch, like you’d get from a fingernail, little tiny strip of skin peeled away, right next to her clit. Crotch wounds like head wounds, bleed like a bastard...
She wrapped a length of clean toilet paper around her hand, pressed her fingers right over the little cut. “You’re OK, Mandy.”
Eyes shut. Nodding. Probably knew she wasn’t hurt bad. Not so stupid she wouldn’t go to the medics if she thought there was a hemorrhage involved. Just a little scratch. Probably no lacerations inside or... anything. Shadows on her face, though. Bruises forming? We’ll know in the morning.
“You want to tell me what happened?”
Biting her lip. No, Sergeant, I don’t want to tell. Just leave me alone, please.
“OK. I damn well know what happened, Mandy. You want to tell me who?”
No.
“I expect my soldiers to be able to take care of themselves, Mandy. Doesn’t matter whether it’s brawls, combat, or just a little rough trade.”
Silence. Then, “I’m sorry, Sergeant. I didn’t mean to make trouble.”
Trouble. Christ. The upbringing of girls. “Fuck the trouble. Look, we can take care of this the Corps way or the soldiers’ way, but it’s got to be taken care of. Your call.”
More silence.
“Come on, Mandy. You change your mind on some asshole when he figured it was too late for you to back out?”
Biting her lip again. “It was an officer.”
Well, now. Got to tread a little lightly here. Mirth forced into her voice: “So you couldn’t fight off some sissy lieutenant or another? Which one? Or were there ten of the little shitskies?” Little shitskies, right out of rot-see...
The woman opened her eyes. “Captain Bergeron.”
Well, shit. No, little Mandy Richardson wouldn’t be able to fight off Mark Bergeron, nor would I, all by my lonesome. Bergeron a slab of meat the size of a TV superhero, capped at Captain, having talked his way into the new OCS program from the rank of tech-sergeant a few years back. Old Corps. Old-style manly man among manly men. Lip curling in the barroom, Fuckin’ pussies in the Marines.
And more than a little bitter because he didn’t seem to be getting his fair share of those pussies. Not the way he wanted them, at any rate. She exhaled a held breath. “OK, Mandy, let’s get you cleaned up. Stay away from sick-call.
I’ll go light on you for the next few days and... Well. We’ll take care of this when we’re ready.”
Grateful look in her eyes, then, but the anger and hurt were still there. Most of all the hurt.
o0o
Six of them. Six pairs of beady eyes looking back at her out of the quasi-darkness. Stars in the sky, crickets chirping in the bushes. Little frogs croaking high-pitched somewhere, frogs in a drainage ditch by the side of the road. Spring peepers, I think they’re called. And six pairs of women’s eyes, shining in the ambient light.
Six women with bruises, bloody noses. One broken arm, that mutter through clenched teeth by Cassie Smithers: You fucking bastard, Bergeron.
Bitch. I’ll get you bitches for this.
Get us. What does he think is about to happen? He knows why this is happening. But, I guess, he figures we’re just going to kick him around a little, leave him out here for the sentries to find, naked maybe, nicely sunburned, mad as Hell.
Dull pain in her back, off center to the right, where he’d nailed her with a sharp kidney punch. Meant to hurt me bad, and I’ll be pissing blood in the morning. But he wasn’t quite fast enough.
Somehow unfair that God set things up this way. Seven God-damned women to take down one fat man, tie him hand and foot...
She could feel his heart beating under her hands now, pounding in his chest, slowing from the exertion, calming down as she held him in her arms from behind. Probably likes the way my tits feel, pressed into his back.
He said, “You’re going to be in a lot of trouble over this, girls.”
Silence. Beady eyes looking at him.
“What, you think I don’t know who you are because it’s dark? Hell, I know every little grunt you girls make. Smithers. Kincaid. Lateesha Reynolds, you fat pig. Even little cunt Richardson...”
Kincaid thumbed him in the throat, heard him gag. Then, “OK, bitches, have your fun. You’ll be in civvies for this. After you do time.”
Silence.
“Tell you what. Let me go and maybe we can come to an accommodation.” Silence. “Tell you what. Untie me, then the six of you hold down Kincaid here long enough for me to get in a compensating fuck, and we’ll forget this ever happened.”
Silence.
Then Kincaid slid the icepick out of her boot, held it up to the sky, where the starlight could show it to him.
“What the fuck...” Heartbeat speeding up a little.
She lowered the icepick, slid it across the front of his pants, played a raspy little tune on his cheap GI zipper. Heart starting to thump nicely now, breath quickening in his chest.
“You try anything like that, bitch, and I promise you ten years at hard labor. Ten years minimum.”
She put the point of the ice pick in his right nostril, nice, nice cold metal, felt him stiffen in her arms. Right now, his balls were probably snugged up tight to his pelvis, pecker hardly more than a nubbin.
Whispered, “God damn you, Kincaid. Enough.”
She said, “Your call, Mandy.”
Long wait, Bergeron’s heart pounding against her chest, felt through the structure of his muscular back. Tiny thought trickling through her, What a waste. In another circumstance, I might like to be snuggled against a back like this.
Mandy Richardson’s fist outlined against the starry sky. Thumbs down.
A moment of sharp regret. Are you sure this is right? But, then: “OK.”
One little squeak from the man as the icepick started to slide up his nose, a frantic little No... She felt him start to buck and struggle as it went in, a hard, gargling outcry.
Crunch. Bones thin up there, offering hardly any resistance at all. Man stiffening hard in her arms, rocking back against her, back of his head smacking against her cheekbone. Well. I’ll have a nice little shiner in the morning.
Then rocking her hand back and forth, giving him a nice little prefrontal lobotomy.
Then angling backward into the main structure of his midbrain, twisting, twisting, remembering that leopard frog from high school, remembering how it screamed, horrid little hiss as it struggled in her hand.
Bergeron not struggling now. Curiously relaxed, weight growing heavier in her arms. Silence. Then a soft, liquid farting sound from inside his pants.
One of the other women, she didn’t know which one, said, “Jesus. Let’s get the Hell out of here.”
o0o
Fading echoes, like a gunshot in the distance, Ling Erhshan stopping in his tracks, looking around uneasily at the darkness. You could get into a lot of trouble, walking alone, down by the quays of Shanghai late at night. Stars up above, like diamond dust in the sky, hardly blotted out at all by the lights of the harbor. Filthy water lapping at the concrete pier, little slopping sound of the wavelets giving the night an ambience all its own.
Nothing.
Lovely night.
Ling Erhshan walking along, headed for the university library all by himself, deep satisfaction centered at the root of his belly.
Lovely night. Most excellent night.
Lovely little Chen taken out for a late-night snack, once they’d finished studying. She was coming along well, finally getting caught up on her calculus, his long evenings of patient tutoring paying off at last.
Paying off at last. It made him smile.
Well, she’ll pass tomorrow’s exam. Of course she will. She’ll get a good night’s sleep now. Be fresh in the morning, bright-eyed and... is fuzzy-tailed the English expression? Well, lovely little Chen had turned out to be fuzzy-tailed indeed, once he’d gotten her cornered behind the bed, gotten her down on the floor, gotten her out of those sexy black bicycling shorts.
All her little protests, whining that she didn’t want... didn’t want... But then there was the promise of her vulva, outlined against the shorts she’d worn. No one wears something like that by accident. I’ve worn bicycle shorts. They feel awful.
Lovely little Chen, lying on the floor, sprawled open for him like that, made all the sexier because she still had on her blouse, that oddly stunned look in her eyes.
Lovely little Chen, holding so still when he crouched down between her legs. Holding so still while he rubbed his cheeks against the soft skin of her smooth, pale thighs. Holding so still while he nuzzled her here and there. Holding so still while he put his tongue where it belonged, where he knew it belonged, where he knew she knew it belonged. Holding so still while he felt her grow wet under his mouth, felt her tissues expand just so...
Ah, little Chen, the lips of your mouth can lie, but the lips of your vulva...
Lovely little Chen, holding so still as he crawled up her belly, holding so still as he nuzzled her cheeks with his wet face, holding so still as he kissed her, opening her mouth for him, letting him put his tongue inside, holding so still as she tasted herself on him...
Lovely little Chen, holding so still as he fumbled around her wet crotch with his hand, as he found the opening, right where it belonged, used his thumb to guide himself inside. Some women help you do that. Some women do not. Maybe lovely little Chen has only been with men who need no assistance...
Then, lovely little Chen holding ever so still as he thrust away into her splendid, smooth, oily inner warmth, breath puffing into his ear in time to his strokes, growing quicker and quicker, just as he grew quicker and quicker...
Lovely little Chen holding ever so still as he went pulse, pulse, pulse within her, warm semen flooding out, carrying away his soul, like a butterfly in the wind. Lovely image. Lovely, lovely image...
Little Chen getting up off the floor, sitting on the edge of her bed. A little smile on her face, perhaps. Odd little smile. Some women so very quiet during lovemaking, while others thrash and moan and scream. So much pleasanter with the quiet women, so much less... distraction. Though, at least with the noisy ones, you didn’t have to ask if they enjoyed it...
Little Chen sitting quietly on the edge of her bed, sitting on a fresh wet spot, still in her blouse, no pants, sitting there staring i
nto space. He said, “Are you all right?”
She just looked at him, eyes expressionless.
After a while he shrugged. Some women were like that. He said, “Well. I’ve got to go. We’ve got a busy day tomorrow.”
Still staring.
He said, “I’ll wait for you after the calculus test. We’ll talk about the questions. Try to see how you made out.”
Silence.
“All right?”
She said, “All right. It’s all right, Erhshan.”
Gone away then, down by the dark Shanghai harbor, a warm spring night in the warm, humid south of China, walking along to the university library. Going to do a little more studying, not that easy stuff about calculus and physics. Doing a little more work, another iteration on the long literature search for his honors course. Looking up the technical specs for those old American rocket ships. Advisor said it was a waste of time. No corporation will pay to develop something as expensive as this, not with its own money.
And the government... well, the government will spend as much of the people’s money as it wishes to spend. Look at what a lovely Navy we have now, battleships and aircraft carriers. Frigates, cruisers, destroyers, nuclear submarines...
But not this.
No reason for this.
No reason at all.
Never got to it. Distracted, walking along, looking into the reading room where the trash literature was kept, stopping to look over the small collection of “futuristic speculations,” books by Chinese authors, mostly about a world where Green China was king, a few fantasies set in the dark depths of Fortress America, objectionist allegories focused on the power of the almighty yüan...
And then, that box, sitting on the floor, full of books waiting to be shelved. Opening the flap, looking in out of bored curiosity. Picking up the topmost book, book printed in modern literary Putonghua characters. Not so hard to follow, now that he was used to following modern Chinese technical literature...
A retrospective anthology of American science fiction stories, covering the first half of the Twentieth-Century, freshly translated from Japanese. Starting with a story that had the unlikely name of Ralph...
The Transmigration of Souls Page 42