by John Ringo
Cally pulled at a strand of hair and examined it minutely. "Wasn't exactly where I was going with that."
"That's what you say now," Shari nodded. "And in about two years you'll be in town talking to one of those nice young soldiers with the wide shoulders. Trust me. You will. You won't be able to help yourself. And I have to admit that if you're doing that with, as your grandfather so delicately put it, 'raccoon eyes,' your chances of ending up holding somebody like Amber a year later is really high."
Cally sighed and shook her head. "I was talking with Wendy and Elgars last night and we didn't have any makeup, but Wendy was telling me a few things. So I got up real early this morning and . . ."
"Tried it," Shari said. "Totally normal. Not a bit of problem. Want to go inside and try it again? This time with some help?"
"Oh, could we?" Cally asked. "I know I look goofy. I just don't know how to fix it. And I love what you did with whatever you used!"
"Well," Shari said with a grimace. "I prefer a bit more than this; I no longer have your perfect skin. But that was all I had to work with. It was in a pouch under the sink. It looked like Galplas . . ." She stopped at the look on Cally's face. "What?"
"That's . . ." Cally shook her head, obviously having a little trouble speaking. "That was my mom's. They . . . sent it back from Heinlein Station, from her quarters. It's . . . about all there was in the way of personal effects; everything else went up with the ship."
"Oh, Cally, I'm so sorry," Shari said, her hands going to her face.
"It's okay, really," Cally replied. "You can use it. It's just . . . junk."
"It's not junk," Shari said, walking over to her. "Are you okay? I'm sorry I used it."
"It's okay, really," Cally said with a set face. "I'm glad you did. I really am. I . . . I just wish mom . . . Ah!" She grabbed her hair. "There are four billion dead in the last few years! I will not blubber because my mother was one of them! I. Won't."
Shari sat down next to the girl and carefully put her arms around her. "You can mourn your mother any way you choose, Cally. Strength and even denial are forms of mourning; trust me, I know. But don't . . . blot her out. Don't . . . leave her behind." She rubbed at the teen's eyes and rocked her for a moment.
"Let's go get that stuff off of you and then pull out your mom's bag of essentials and see what works. I think that would be a good start. In more ways than one."
Papa O'Neal looked up as Mosovich and Mueller rounded the corner.
"Isn't it a little early to be hitting the booze?" Mosovich chuckled.
Papa O'Neal held up the bottle of homebrewed beer and peered through it. "I'm raising jailbait in a valley full of horny soldiers; it is never too early to start drinking."
"Well, they're going to have a hard time getting in here," Mueller admitted. "We were wandering around checking out the defenses; I've seen firebases with worse killzones than these."
Elgars wandered up behind the two soldiers then walked over to the barbeque. She looked at the pig, which had been butterflied onto a large grill and was slowly grilling over hickory.
"This is a pig, right?" she asked with a sniff. "Like you have in the cells."
"Pens," Papa O'Neal said with a smile. "Yes."
"And we're going to eat it?" she asked. "They are . . . very dirty."
"I cleaned it up before I threw it on the grill," O'Neal answered. "And you can feel free to refrain. But I'm, personally, planning on, pardon the expression, pigging out."
Elgars nodded and pulled off a piece of half burned meat. She juggled the piece of pork for a second, blowing on it until it cooled enough to pop in her mouth. She chewed on it for a moment and then nodded. "It's good," she said.
"Why thanks," O'Neal said with a snort. "I try. Just wait until the skin gets to cracklin' stage."
"This won't be ready until this evening, right?" Mueller asked.
"Right," Papa O'Neal said, pouring a little of the beer on the fire to cool it. The hickory hissed and spat, making a succulent smoke. "It'll probably be ready a little before dark. But I don't have to stay here the whole time; Cally can watch it to make sure it doesn't flame up too far. I was thinking of taking y'all up on the hill. I've got a couple of caches that might come in handy if it drops in the pot and there's a couple of trails for coming over the ridges, places you'd be surprised about, that you might be able to use some time."
"Works for me," Mosovich said. "Would you care to accompany us, Captain?"
Elgars looked up at the steep-sided hills. "I think I would like that very much. I have been interested in wandering around here, but I was unsure of the protocol. And there was some mention of mechanical defenses."
"I can't leave anything live," O'Neal pointed out. "Too many large animals. We've got sensors and we get the occasional feral Posleen, but we only turn on the automatics for an attack."
"You know," Mueller said. "I feel like a real idiot. Here we are wandering around and there's ferals in these woods. We've run into 'em before. And without a gun, we might as well be walking larders."
"He doesn't have a gun," Elgars said, pointing at Papa O'Neal. "And he lives here."
"O ye of little faith," O'Neal answered, reaching up and behind him. What he pulled out looked like a hand cannon.
"Desert Eagle?" Mueller asked, holding out his hand.
"One up the spout," Papa O'Neal answered, handing it over by flipping it around and offering it butt first. "Desert Eagle chambered for .50 Action Express."
"Cool," the master sergeant said. He dropped the magazine and jacked out the round up the spout. The brass and steel cartridge was as big around as his thumb. "Jesus! That's a big goddamned round!"
"You can lose a .45 cartridge in the shell casing," Papa O'Neal said with a laugh. "I did that one time reloading. And the bullet's the new Winchester Black Rhino .50. It'll put a Posleen down with one shot almost anywhere you hit it. And there are seven. I got tired of carting around a rifle all the damned time."
Elgars took the weapon and handled it carefully then lined up a shot with a perfect two-handed grip. "I love it, but the grip's too large for my hands."
"There is that," Papa O'Neal said. He slathered some more barbecue sauce on the meat then reloaded and reholstered the gun. "And the recoil is a stone bitch. But it's got authority, by God!" He finished the beer, rinsed out the bottle in the outdoor tap and set it upside down in a rack that was clearly intended for the purpose. Then he burped and looked up at the sun.
"If we take off now, we can get up to the caves and be back by lunchtime. That gives us all afternoon to drink beer, lie about our exploits over the years and act as if we're not tired old farts."
"Works for me," said Mosovich with a grin.
"Then let's go load up," O'Neal said. "You don't walk these hills armed with a pistol. Even one this big."
* * *
Wendy smiled as Shari and Cally entered the kitchen.
"I see you took my advice," she said. "Nice job. Very understated."
"Ah . . ." Cally said.
"We had to do a little revising," Shari admitted.
"Granpa said I had raccoon eyes," Cally said bitterly.
"You did have raccoon eyes," Shari said. "And later Wendy can show you how to do raccoon eyes the right way; I've seen Wendy do the 'Britney Spears look' and it's a very good similarity."
Wendy stuck her tongue out, but otherwise forbore to comment.
"Until then," Shari continued, "go with the minimum. You don't really need it, you know. Most makeup work is designed to make women look like you do naturally. And, be aware, one of the reasons not to ladle it on like warpaint is that that's what the young ladies who are selling their affection do. And if you are walking around with that sort of makeup in dowtown Franklin, don't be upset if one of those soldiers gets the wrong impression."
"I'm just tired of being 'one of the boys,' " Cally said. "I mean, up until I started to get breasts and the boys started following me around with their tongues hanging out, Granpa
treated me like I was a guy. Now he wants to stick me in a tower until my hair is long enough to climb down!"
Shari smiled and shook her head. "He's a father. Well, a grandfather, but arguably it's the same thing. What he really wants is what's best for you, in his eyes. He might be right, he might be wrong, but that's what he's trying for. That's what every parent tries to do," she finished with a sigh.
"The other thing is that he's a guy," Wendy said. "He used to be one of those boys with their tongues hanging out and he knows what they're thinking and he knows what they want. And all that ninety-nine percent of them want is to get laid. They'll say anything, do anything, to get that. Some of them are even willing to use force. He knows what they're thinking, he knows what they're saying to each other in the barracks and he knows what they are willing to do to get it. So he's very paranoid about it."
"I'm paranoid about it, too," Cally said. "You only have to get stalked a couple of times to get really paranoid. But . . ."
"But me no buts," Wendy said. "I spent four, heck, six years with the reputation of school slut because I was the only girl not putting out. I spent I don't know how many summer dates perspiring in a long sweater and tied tight sweat pants. And don't even get me started on fumbling with electronic locks. I got to where I knew not to get in the backseat because they might have engaged the damned child locks and I wouldn't be able to open the door. I walked home at least six times in four years. When it comes to guys and hormones there is no such thing as too paranoid."
"There's worse," Shari said darkly. "If you choose wrong in one of those back seats, you can get to the point where you really believe that you're in the wrong. That the hitting is because it's all your fault. That the abuse is okay because you're not good enough, not pretty enough, not smart enough." She stopped and looked at Cally shaking her head. "Don't get me wrong, men are great and they have a place . . ."
"Plumbing, electrical," Wendy said with a snort. "Carrying heavy loads . . . killing spiders . . ."
" . . . But choosing right is the most important choice you'll ever make," Shari continued, looking at Wendy severely. "But at that point, my advice is all dried up; I've never been able to choose worth a damn."
"Well, I did okay," Wendy said with a smile. "So far. And if you want some advice on that, it's just this; if he tells you he wants you to put out, run like hell. Shoot your way out if you have to. If he's not willing to wait for you to say you want to, he's not worth your time."
"How do you know he really likes you if he's not asking?" Cally asked. "I mean . . . what if he doesn't like you?"
Wendy smiled in recollection. "Well, in my case I knew he liked me because he carried me out of a firefight instead of putting a bullet in my head as we'd agreed. So I was pretty certain he liked me. But I'd sort of come to that conclusion before that anyway. You'll know. If you don't, he doesn't like you enough."
"This is too complicated," Cally said. "What about I shoot him? If he comes back, he really likes me. And I can guarantee he won't try anything until I say it's okay."
"Well . . ." Shari said.
"I was joking," Cally said with a laugh. "At most a broken arm." Cally looked pensive for a moment then shrugged. "So, to decide whether a guy is worth going to bed with, I wait. And if he doesn't ask . . ."
"Or beg or whine or bully," Wendy said. "They're all much more likely . . ."
" . . . Then it's okay?"
"If you want to," Shari noted. "And . . . wait a while, okay? Thirteen is way too young to make a good decision, however grown up you feel."
"I wasn't planning on testing it out tomorrow," Cally said. "Okay, so we've got the basic rule down."
"Yeah, and it's really the basics," Wendy said with a sigh. "It's the deciding if you want to that's tough."
"If he doesn't ask, but you're still getting a creepy feeling, or he's always making fun of you or talking you down, especially in front of people, don't, even if you want to." Shari shook her head with a dark expression. "Don't, don't, don't."
"This is getting complicated," Cally said. "I think I should just shoot him and see what happens from there."
"It'll drive away some good ones, you know," Wendy said with a smile. "Actually, I can't think of a guy it wouldn't drive away."
"I could just shoot 'em lightly," Cally said plaintively. "With a .22. In a fleshy spot. No pain, no gain."
Shari laughed out loud and shook her head. "Okay, it sounds like a plan. If you like 'em, and they seem to be okay, and they're not asking for you to go to bed with them, shoot 'em lightly in a fleshy spot. If they never come back, you know they weren't for you. But don't get in a habit of shooting him every time you disagree, okay?"
"Just one question," Wendy said with a mock serious expression. "Where are you going to get a .22? I mean, I've seen .308s and .30-06s, but .22s seem to be in short supply in this household."
"It's what I carry as my main weapon," Cally said with a snort. "It's not like I'm going to carry around a special 'guy test' gun just to shoot guys if I think I like 'em."
"You carry a .22?" Wendy said with a laugh. "Wow, that must really scare the Posleen no end! You're joking, right?"
Cally smiled thinly. "Let's go down to the range. And see who laughs last."
Chapter 19
Rabun Gap, GA, United States, Sol III
1325 EDT Friday September 25, 2009 ad
"So that's a .22?" Wendy asked in disbelief. The weapon was odd looking, resembling nothing so much as an undersized "Tommy Gun" with the drum magazine placed on top. She could see the tiny aperture in the barrel, but she found the concept of this warrior-child carrying a .22, a round usually used by eight-year-old boys to shoot rats, ludicrous. The gun looked like a toy, which she knew was a dangerous mental attitude.
"Yep," Cally said, walking around onto the range. "Range is cold, people, no locking, no aiming, no, no, no firing; safe your weapons." She picked up a broken cinderblock off of a stack and, with remarkably little difficulty, carried it halfway to the first target and set it on a section of tree trunk that had apparently been set up for the purpose. "This is the standard demonstration for the American 180," she continued, walking back to the firing line.
There were two ranges set up on the O'Neal property. The first, where they were preparing to fire, was a standard target range. There were a variety of pop-up targets, scoring circles and man- and Posleen-shaped silhouettes, ranging out to two or three hundred yards. The other range, which ran along the road to the entry, was a tactical firing line.
Cally looked at the group and frowned. "Papa O'Neal usually covers this, but I think I'm elected. How many of you have been on a range before?"
Most of the children had wandered over and she frowned when none of them raised their hands. "None of you have been on a range? Where do you do weapons training?"
"It's illegal to let a person under sixteen handle a weapon in the Urb," Wendy said with a frown.
"That's . . . ridiculous," Cally said.
Wendy shrugged. "You're preaching to the choir; there were kids in the Hitler Youth that were younger than that. They tended to surrender pretty quick and they weren't much good. But they fought in a real war."
"I won't even go there," Cally said with a frown.
"Have you ever shot a Posleen?" Shari asked. "I only ask because . . . I don't see somebody Billy's age being . . ."
"Useful?" Cally said with a snort. "You see the bunker by the house? I killed my first Posleen when I was his age, covering Granpa with my rifle; he was manning the mini-gun. It was during the Fredericksburg landing cycle and a Posleen company landed at the head of the valley and ended up coming up the trail. None of them left the holler; we hit 'em with the band of claymores and then stacked the survivors. So, yeah, I think Billy could be pretty useful if you let him be."
"It's not my rule anyway," Shari said with a shrug.
"Whatever," Cally replied. "You gonna mind if he fires one here?"
"Will it be safe?" Shari ask
ed, looking at the odd little rifle in trepidation.
"Of course it will," Cally said. "The first thing to cover is range safety."
She ran through an abbreviated range safety briefing covering hearing protection, ensuring that the weapons were safed and cleared if anyone was to be downrange, keeping fingers off the triggers and always assuming a weapon was loaded. "The most important thing is that; never, ever point a gun, even an 'unloaded' gun, at anything you don't want destroyed. For the purposes of safety, every gun is loaded. Guns aren't evil magic; they're just tools for killing something at a distance. Treat them as useful, but dangerous tools, like a circular saw or a chainsaw, and you'll be fine."
She picked up the rifle and flicked on the laser sight; a tiny red dot settled on the cinderblock. "If not, this is what happens." Holding the weapon by her side, the dot barely shivering on the block, she opened fire.
The weapon was quiet: a series of pops like a distant, poorly tuned outboard motor. An outboard motor going very fast.
Wendy shook her head as the cinderblock disintegrated. The individual rounds were tiny, an individual .22 round was about as big around as a drinking straw. But the gun was spitting dozens of them in under a second and with negligible recoil; Wendy could see the rounds impacting in the haze of dust and the laser aiming point still wasn't moving.
After a few moments the bolt clicked on an empty chamber and Cally pulled the drum off, a single round falling into the dust at her feet, and replaced it. The cinderblock had been hammered into a pile of dust and chunks no larger than a thumb.
"It runs through its rounds in a jiffy," Cally noted, setting the weapon down. "And it's no good at any sort of range. But it's good in close, even against Posleen, and it's fun as heck to fire. However, if we're going to fire anything else, we need to put on our earmuffs."
Cally gestured to Wendy to hand over the Steyr then waved to Billy. "Your turn."
She jacked a round into the chamber and settled the weapon into his shoulder. "Left hand on the stock, right hand on the pistol grip, finger off the trigger," she continued, gently moving it away. "Safety is by your right thumb. Look through the rear ring, lay your cheek onto the stock and find the front sight and focus on it. Lay the top of the front sight on the target. Take a breath and let it out and when you're comfortable, slowly squeeze the trigger. Squeeze it gently; the shot should feel like a surprise."