The Myriad: Tour of the Merrimack #1

by R. M. Meluch

  Farragut pulled his chin back. “What does that mean?”

  Calli was the expert in things Roman.

  Her braid swayed with the shaking of her head. “John, I haven’t an Earthly clue.”

  Captain Farragut got rowdy that evening, in the first watch. You could hear him singing—roaring really—from the officers’ mess. The Marines took their cue from that and started drumming. And soon they were all trying to rock the ship within its inertial field.

  Kerry Blue stood watch in the depths of the lower sail. First watch was the only time the whole ship was awake at one time. Parties, when they happened, happened in the first watch.

  The rest of Alpha Flight partied as if returned from the dead. Kerry recognized Dak’s lag beat clanging against the bulkhead. Uffing baboon could not keep a tempo.

  She beat on the bulkhead with the butt of her splinter gun, yelling up, “Step it up, you boon!” But no one could hear her.

  Kerry was not sure what she had done to deserve separation and exile from her mates. The laughter rolled down here to the bowels of the ship. Anger leaked out her eyes.

  When she was spelled at middle watch, she took the ladder rungs at a ringing stomp. Stalked to Steele’s quarters, requested permission to enter, stormed in before he could answer.

  She demanded to know the reason for this reprimand, and don’t pretend it’s not a rep. She hadn’t hit the res sender. Why was she stationed under the ship while someone else who shall go unnamed is partying her brains out? Demanded she be restored to rotation with her flight mates, or you can just damn well show cause, sir.

  TR Steele turned to her quite slowly, ominously. Eyes narrowed at her. Had not been sleeping, but was undressed, ready for the rack. Barefoot, in boxers and tank top. A dauntingly big man. Boulder-muscled. Looked like something tossed up from a volcano and still smoldering.

  His voice, always a bark, came out disturbingly soft. “Flight Sergeant, I don’t need my orders questioned by the company joyride.”

  Aborted words stuck in her throat. Her fists closed, opened, arms searching for somewhere to be. “And just how do you get off calling me that?”

  “Flight Sergeant, where are you and what time is it?”

  “It’s the middle of bloody middle watch—Don’t I know it! I’m awake and fragging nobody else is!”

  She didn’t get it.

  He felt absolutely naked. Just the two of them in the dim light of his cabin. Would feel more naked still grabbing for clothes. It was nothing she hadn’t seen in the gym. Didn’t bother her. Bothered him.

  And her carrying on like an idiot down damnation road. Her small breasts lifting with each angry breath.

  “So what did I do to deserve the Hamster watch with the screwups?”

  Glenn Hamilton commanded the ship in the quiet hours.

  “Hamster is not a screwup,” said Steele. That was beside any point, but he didn’t have a good reason for the exile. He simply could not bear to be near her anymore. Afraid of touching her hair in an unguarded moment, or smiling at the sound of her laughter, or gazing at her too long.

  And he didn’t want her loose at first watch to party and fall into the rack with any target of opportunity who caught her drunken eye. He wished her stray-cat ways would disgust him. It only made him ache not to be the one.

  “Yeah, but Hamster’s only got the graveyard watch because Farragut’s sweet on her and he’s keeping her out of his sight. Everybody knows that.”

  “Oh, really?” blistering irony. Might have laughed at her, but he was too terrified that she was about to connect the dots. Hamster is on night watch because Farragut likes her too much. And Kerry Blue is on night watch why?

  Felt himself turning color. Steele blushed like a flare. Hoped the lights were too dim for her to see it.

  “I will not be thrown under the ship just because you think you’re too good for me.”

  “If that’s what you think, Blue, you’re a box of rocks.” She was yelling at a man in his skivvies in his cabin. Did it ever cross her randy little mind that he was even male? She was talking to him like he was her father or a gelding.

  And—oh, hell—it sure wasn’t dim enough for her not to see that.

  Never more afraid than he was in this moment. She was going to notice. Laughter or horror. Either would hollow him right out.

  But she was oblivious. Completely.

  “Sir, can I go on the record—”

  “No.” He cut her off. “Because none of this is being recorded.”

  His big hand closed round the back of her neck, drew her in. His other arm crushed her to him, and he covered her mouth with his, kissed her, rude, deep, and out of control.

  Then, just as suddenly, he wrenched her away from him so she stood on her own two feet, swaying, one hand floundering to catch the bulk as if the deck were pitching. It wasn’t. He thrust her at the hatch. “You have four seconds to go if you’re going.”

  She hesitated, and he grabbed her back on the count of two. Made the mistake last time of giving her too much time. Needed her—hot, hard, and now.

  She squeaked against his teeth. His tongue bludgeoned its way into her mouth. Her next squeak came muffled. This could not feel like love from her end. His either. Felt like drowning.

  Then, miraculously, the rigid tree in his arms transformed into a woman. Her stiff muscles relaxed, body softened to him. Her arms draped round his shoulders, and she yielded to everything.

  Women could forgive a lot if you needed them. Kerry Blue had forgiven a lot of men. He felt a primitive need to replace them all.

  He pulled the band out of her hair and let it tumble.

  Kerry Blue with her hair down.

  Sleepy voice mumbled against his chest in the dark hours, as slender fingers toyed at the damp, springy hairs there, “Been in space a long time, soldier?”

  He growled. “I have been in space longer than this—younger—and have never mauled a girl like you just got.” He stopped short of an apology, because he was not truly sorry. He was not even done.

  Kerry slunk back to her pod, a scant stroke before eight bells. The usual graffiti defacing her place in the rack: 0010 0101

  She didn’t know binary, but she thought those ones and zeros said 69 somehow. Boffin humor.

  She climbed unsteadily onto the rack, snapped up the netting. Stupid reg, that. Made you feel like a baby in a crib. But any grunt injured on account of falling out of the rack would be brought up on charges. Destruction of government property.

  Secured, she curled into her pod. From below came a hiss. Reg: “Where have you been? Are you okay?”

  Kerry nodded on her pillow, even though Reg couldn’t see. Kerry sniffled. Whispered back, “Had it out with the colonel for reassigning me.” That was close to true.

  “Prick.”

  “Well. Yeah.”

  Kerry snugged her covers around her, her body singing aftershocks. Sorted a torrent of thoughts.

  His name. She didn’t know his name! Ran through the possibilities of TR. Better not be Theodore Roosevelt. Theodore? Gak. Teddy? Toooo cute. She would laugh. Thomas? Tom? Terrence? Terry? Oh, Kerry and Terry. Oh, no, no, no, no. Trent? Gag. Tiberius? Utter retching. Travis?

  Beginning to panic. Did not want to know. Had to know. Whispered, “Reg?”

  “Yo, babe.”

  “What’s the colonel’s name?”

  “TR.”

  Opened the netting to flap her pillow over the side. Hissed, “What’s it stand for?”

  “Tyrannosaurus Rex?”

  Reg was no help.

  “Fits.”

  Kerry remembered all the times she had caught him scowling at her. Hot, black looks. She had to go back and rethink those glares. And there had been a holy lot of them. She had assumed he thought her an uf.

  Oh, yeah, that’s what he’d been thinking. How wrong could a woman be?

  She rolled over, hugging her pillow, reliving moments too hot to think on. Flinched at a remembered touch.
Sensations and emotions too intense. Sex which was not a game. That was new. The sense of a soul breaking over her, pouring out naked. He had touched her. Touched her.

  “Yows, Blue, your weed is singing up a blue streak!”

  Kerry became guiltily aware that her lizard plant, perched at the end of her pod, was humming to the tune of her madly gyrating emotions.

  “Uh. Maybe it needs some light,” Kerry mumbled. She scooped up her pet and gently hustled it out of the forecastle.

  Barefoot, in her skivvies, she padded to hydroponics, there to deposit her jubilantly singing weed with the lettuce under the lights.

  She crept back to the rack in the half-light of middle watch. The ship was quiet, as quiet as it ever got. There were always the rhythmic footfalls of joggers circling the outer belt. And the thwapping of a squash ball at any hour. Tough to get court time, and it was a popular sport, to practice wielding a hard object in close quarters without cracking your partner—before you had to do it in anger with a honed edge.

  She returned to the rack, reality setting in. This was a career ender. And it would be her career, for sure. Him, they would frown at indulgently, slap his broad wrists with a secret wink and a nudge, and out she goes.

  Damn you, Colonel. Damn you.

  But she found her anger slippery. Couldn’t hold it. He’d come to her like a dam breaking. A big, blundering, wounded moose. Love like a train wreck. That kind of passion was a force of its own. An endearing need one must love in return.

  Reg’s whisper from below made her jump. “Do you think the colonel is cute?”

  Kerry clutched her pillow, holding in panic. Why was Reg asking her that? Did she know?

  No. This was slumber-party chat. Just talking. Kerry dodged the question, “You know blonds aren’t my first choice.”

  A yawn. Sound of stretching. A sigh. “You don’t think he’s cute?”

  Overwhelming. Magnificent. Breathtaking. Cute? “No!”

  From the other side of the partition: “I’m cute.”

  “Shut up, Dak.”

  Steele put a foot on the first ladder rung, felt the vibration of someone climbing up. He looked down, primed to challenge some space swabbie for right of way. Instead his jaw clenched as he recognized the close-cropped, tight, dark curls on the top of the ascending head. He stepped aside to give way to Colonel Augustus. Hated getting close to him. Could never get past him without comment.

  This time it was an arch smile. “Ah. Flattop. Here.” Augustus offered him a record bubble.

  Steele eyed it suspiciously. He did not want anything Augustus had to offer. Still, the undercurrent of smug, malicious glee put him on guard. “What is it?”

  “There are no copies, so you can erase it if you want.” Augustus was blithe. “But I wouldn’t. It’s really impressive.”

  A horrible prickle stung Steele’s mouth at the sound of Augustus’ diabolical chuckle. And in case there was any doubt:

  “The part where you told her this is not being recorded was not accurate.”

  White-blonds could not contain a blush. Steele knew he was flaming red. Ears on fire. “You are spying on me!”

  Augustus was serene, almost congenial. “You knew I had a rover on Flight Sergeant Blue.”

  The color drained right out. He had known. He forgot. Or just assumed the recorder had been removed after Kerry’s rescue from the poison gas.

  Augustus held the bubble in the flat of his palm. “You owe me.”

  Steele snatched the recording. “You are such a dick.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  Middle watch took forever coming round again. Kerry waited for the corridors to clear, then furtively scampered up the ladder to the officers’ deck, let herself into Steele’s cabin, heart in her throat. Never felt like this. Afraid she was in love with the moose.

  Came in as he was dragging on a shirt, his back toward her. Brawny shoulders flexed, great power in the motion. Her mouth opened, but words clogged, choked. She blurted, “Your name better be Thomas.”

  He turned, a smile on his lips. Then his brow furled and he stalked the two steps toward her, scowling darkly. He took her face in his hands, tilted her face this way and that to study her side bars.

  Satisfied the recorders were gone, he relaxed. The smile returned. “It is. Why?”

  “Oh, thank God. I was sure it was Theodore. Is it Tom or Thomas?”

  “My friends call me TR.”

  “I’m not your friends. And when it gets down to the short strokes, ‘Oh, TR! Oh, TR!’ ain’t gonna fly. And ‘Oh, Colonel!’ is just too queer.”

  “Thomas, then. No one who ever mattered ever called me Tom. And you better be whispering.” He rapped a big fist against the paper-thin bulk.

  “That’s gonna be tough. I’m a natural screamer.”

  “I know,” he said, grim. Had heard many a name cried in ecstasy from the lower deck, like a stab in the gut.

  “Thomas,” she tried out the sound. Whispering. “I’m just Kerry.”

  “I know, Marine.”

  “Oh.” Disappointed. “You’re one of those guys who never calls a girl by name so you don’t call the old girlfriend’s name by mistake?”

  “So I don’t call yours by mistake, unless you mean to quit the Corps, which I wouldn’t mind. But that’s your choice.”

  “Oh.” Very considerate. She wasn’t used to consideration. “You’re the oldest man I’ve ever been with.”

  “Screw you.”

  Why had she said that? You’re an idiot, Blue. But he knows that. “Any time. What I meant was, you know how they say men are horniest when they’re seventeen? I mean, how come you didn’t kill someone when you were seventeen?”

  “Did I hurt you?”

  There was that consideration thing again. Not an acquired taste. She liked it immediately. “No. But you gots to know I’m not Snow White.”

  “That was to make you forget everyone who knows you’re not Snow White.”

  “You’re jealous.”

  “Shit.” That was a yes.

  “So, um, where do we go from here? I mean, is there . . . ?” This meant too much and she was getting scared to finish the question. Afraid to assume. She’d assumed a lot with Cowboy. What in hell had she ever seen in that boy? “Are we going somewhere? I mean, if that was it, that’s okay, but—”

  “That was not IT.”

  She could see through his snarls now. Felt a big smile sprawl all over her face. “So where does that . . . go?”

  “Hell, Marine. I am so far out of bounds I can’t see the bounds. I have no authority in this situation. You got an idea, I’ll listen to it.”

  Steele never ever asked for suggestions. But they were in never ever land, so why not. “When can I see you again?”

  “That’s my girl. All tactical. No strategy.”

  “I’m waiting for you to kiss me. Now works for me.”

  She was not used to his smiles. Looked kind of sappy, kind of boyish on his face. Made her twinge inside. Felt the heat between them as he took her face in his hands again.

  The hatch lock at her back scraped with a soft, experimental turn. She whirled, grabbed the handle, and fought the bar’s stealthy turn. Steele’s tree limb of an arm reached over her shoulder to add his strength to hers. She craned around to look up at him wide-eyed, mouthed the words: Who is that?

  His head shook, unknowing.

  The intruder fought the stiffness, gave the handle a yank, then knocked. “Sir?” Young voice. Male.

  “What?” Steele roared.

  “You awake, sir?”

  “I am now. What is it?”

  “Mr. Carmel’s compliments, sir.”

  Kerry muttered. “I can take her. I’ll take that beauty queen right out.”

  The voice went on, “Captain’s on the bridge, sir.”

  “Thank you. Beat it.”

  “Sir.”

  Footsteps retreated.

  Steele’s arms enclosed Kerry, kissed her neck.
>
  And let her go. When she turned around, he had turned back into the granite man she had long known, that dour battle mask engraved into his face. She demanded, “What? What happened?”

  He reached for his combat uniform. “Hit the rack, Marine. Sleep in your acid fatigues.”

  Acid-resistant fatigues were for fighting the Hive.

  Gorgons.

  But the telltales were still. She didn’t understand. “What’s happening?”

  He said only: “Farragut.”

  Captain Farragut made an unexpected appearance on the command deck. One of his quieter entrances, in part because he was barefoot, and in part in consequence of the cup of coffee from the muscular end of the pot he nursed. He was supposed to be asleep, and part of him still was. Still in the olive drab T-shirt and sweatpants that he customarily wore to bed.

  And Hamster, accustomed to having the bridge to herself in middle watch, inhaled to announce him, but his open hand signaled her to ignore him.

  The lieutenant settled guardedly back into the captain’s chair. Farragut prowled to the sensor monitors. Ran a hand through his tousled hair. Sharp smell from the cup in his other hand burned the air in his wake.

  Hamster sat rigid, as if at attention. She sent a discreet message to the XO’s quarters. “Captain’s on the bridge.” And in no time, Calli Carmel appeared, in uniform. Her long hair, tied back, was still wet from an interrupted shower.

  The whole ship quietly stirred.

  Hands clasped behind her, Calli stood at the captain’s side. “What’ve you got, John?”

  “We’re close.”

  Calli sniffed his cup, wrinkled her nose. “Are you sure you’re not smelling that?”

  “They’re out here,” he murmured. Lifted his cup to his lips. Made the mistake of looking into it. Looked like a melted burr. He lowered the cup.

  Augustus was next on the bridge. Roman chemical-resistant fatigues were black, not the fetching mustard yellow of U.S. issue. Someone must have told him what it meant when John Farragut went sleepwalking to the bridge in middle watch. All of Merrimack tiptoed around him.