by Tom Kratman
Another sailor, and then a fourth, scuttled along the deck to take hold of the line. With four strong men pulling even Santiona's bulk began to rise.
"Meg! Meg! Meggg!"
* * *
The fish was confused. The thing ahead of him, trying to run away, really didn't look like the baleen whales that made up much of its diet. It didn't smell quite right either. Only the spurt of urine rushing into the water from the thing dangling off the back really reminded it of its normal prey.
And those cheap bastards are trying to haul it in. Well, we'll just see about that. The fish sped up.
* * *
"Christ! The fucking thing is speeding up!"
"Meg! Meg! Meeeggg!"
"XO?!"
"I'm giving it all she's got, skipper."
"C'mon, you lazy bastards; PULL!"
* * *
So close . . . sooo close . . . one more effort . . . . .but . . . no . . . tiring . . . life's just so unfair. Sigh.
* * *
Pedraz breathed a sigh of relief as he saw the space between boat and shark widen. After a time the fin turned away. Then it disappeared. Santiona's cry had grown softer, "meg . . . meg . . . . meg." The rest of the crew alternately swore or just stood or sat, drained.
"Doc?!" Pedraz called.
"Here . . . skipper," gasped one of the line haulers, lying on his back nearby.
"Huh? Oh . . . didn't know you were so close. Doc . . . go break out a bottle of medicinal rum." He looked over at Santiona—"meg . . . meg . . . meg"—and thought, "No . . . make it two bottles. Prescribe to the crew as you think they need it."
"Aye, aye, skipper."
Rising unsteadily to his feet, Pedraz staggered to the cockpit. "And you were bitching that you were bored?" he said to Francés.
"Well . . . . skipper. It's not like we have any girls aboard."
From the stern continued the chant, "meg . . . meg . . . meg . . . "
6/2/468 AC, The Big ?
"Mmm . . . . mmmph . . . . oh . . . ah . . . " Jaquie's and Marta's bodies were covered in sweat and intertwined on one of the two narrow naval bunks in their quarters. Jaquelina was half on top, with her left side resting on the bed and her right leg and hand between Marta's legs. The hand moved gently but deftly; teasing, rubbing, flicking the little button revealed by the splaying of Marta's legs. Those legs began to twitch even as the last "ah" began to morph to a very loud and piercing, "Aiiiiii."
And that's my cue, thought Jaquie as she clamped her mouth over Marta's, forcing her tongue between the other girl's lips and making a seal that was air tight and scream proof. She held that seal while Marta's own hand reached down to cover and control Jaquie's. Marta's body thrashed wildly atop the thin mattress.
The shuddering grew less, giving Jaquie a chance to come up for air before again covering the other girl's mouth with her own and again using her fingers to lift Marta up to and past the peak. After three or four repetitions, the larger girl arched her back and then slowly subsided, relaxing, to the mattress.
"Oh, God, that was wonderful," Marta whispered into Jaquie's ear, before flicking it with her tongue and then plunging as much of her tongue as would fit into the canal. Jaquie had the most wonderfully sensitive ears. It was her turn to shudder as Marta's tongue set the nerve endings running wild. Jaquie purred like a kitten before reaching up both hands to grasp Marta's head and pull it down to where it could do the most good.
"I love you, Jaquelina," Marta whispered just before burying her face between Jaquie's legs.
Jaquelina, fortunately, was not a screamer.
7/2/468 AC, Quarters Number One, Isla Real, Balboa
"Miss Lourdes," for McNamara had never quite gotten over calling her 'Miss Lourdes,' even when she'd become 'Señora Carrera,' " for t'e love of God, please tell t'e boss to call me forward. I just can' fockin' stand it no more. And I ain't got so many years left to me that I can afford to be here when t'e fightin's t'ere."
* * *
Rank and position are curious things. In any given military organization there are usually five or six people that run it. Sometimes it's the commander. Sometimes—and usually unfortunately, if so—it's the commander's wife. Sometimes, at the company or maniple level, it can be one lone sergeant, and not necessarily a senior one, in the training NCO slot.
In the case of the Legion one of the true movers and shakers was the Sergeant Major, John McNamara. Part of this was that he had Carrera's ear. Much of it, though, was what the man was, himself.
* * *
Lourdes sighed. Patricio had asked her to be a shoulder for the sergeant major to cry on if—no, Patricio had said "when"—being left behind got to be too much for him. He must have told Xavier, too, for it was Jimenez who'd asked Lourdes to ask McNamara for lunch. He'd come, of course, and sounded like he'd been happy to. But he'd come with his craggy black face a mask of utter misery.
"What's the problem, John?" she asked. She avoided answering the question because one of the other things Pat had told her was, "I need him to stay here, to watch over the Legion's base and over you and the kids, too. I need him to keep watch out for Parilla. I need him here."
It was McNamara's turn to sigh. Yes, sure as shit the boss told Lourdes already that I can't come and play.
"It everyt'ing, Miss Lourdes. Jimenez don' need me here; his legion, t'e Fourth, and his sergeant major can do just fine wit'out me. T'e Training Legion don' need me eit'er, with Martinez running t'ings. So I end up helpin' Parilla with t'e presidential campaign and . . . well . . . it just ain't me. It's dirty shit, nasty, no place for a soldier to be."
"And besides all t'at, Miss Lourdes, since t'e kids grew up and t'e wife passed on I've had nobody to fight wit'. I'm bored."
"I don't think I can help, John. Patricio never has anyone do anything without a good reason. If he wants you, myself and Xavier here, it's for a purpose. I don't think we can buck him in this."
* * *
Artemisia Jimenez had only just caught sight of McNamara's vehicle as it pulled into Quarters Number One's driveway. She was too late to actually say anything to the sergeant major. Still, she raced to put on gardening clothes and posted herself nearby so that when he emerged . . .
"Why hello, Sergeant Major," she purred, looking up as he neared his auto. "If I'd known it was you visiting Lourdes, I'd have popped over."
Most women simply stood. Artemisia was fundamentally incapable of simply standing. Instead, like a fast action movie of a flowing plant, she blossomed onto her feet.
McNamara was not made of stone. Watching the sheer presence of Artemisia Jimenez blooming so closely would have taken the breath from any man. It did with him, as well. It did so, so completely, in fact, that McNamara simply bid her a nervous good day, got in his auto, and drove away.
* * *
If I were not more than twice her age, if I were no so old and seamed and gangly and outright ugly, Mac thought, I would never have left there.
* * *
"Shit," Artemisia said aloud, watching the car drive off. "What did I do wrong? Damn, and he's so perfect."
7/2/468 AC, Quarters Number Two, Isla Real
Artemisia thought her uncle was possibly the second-most manly man she had ever seen. The first was . . .
"Uncle Xavier, could we ask Sergeant Major McNamara over to dinner? I saw him visiting Lourdes Carrera today and he looked extremely sad and lonely."
Jimenez was no fool. His niece's tastes in men had proven decidedly odd over the years. And she'd never shown the slightest interest in any of the young men who sniffed about the balconies so regularly. Jimenez folded his daily paper and put it aside.
After a sigh he said, "Arti, Mac's a fine man, but he's old enough to be your father . . . maybe your grandfather, if he was precocious."
Am I that obvious? Or am I only that obvious to my older male relations?
"I don't care, Uncle. Ever since I saw him at the hippodrome, I've been fascinated."
"He's not rich,
Arti, though I have no doubt that Patricio would fix that if he ever saw a reason to, or Mac asked. And he is old, nearly sixty. There's no guarantee he could ever father children on you."
Artemisia sniffed, pointedly. "Trust me, Uncle; women can tell. He could still father a score of children. Give him ten women and he could father two hundred. Uncle, the Sergeant Major is a man."
Jimenez smiled at his niece. "Well . . . yes, I suppose he is. But what makes you think he might be, or even could be, interested in you?"
Artemisia didn't have to blossom for her uncle. A simply tilt of the head and half pirouette sufficed.
"Well," the legate conceded, pulling on one ear ruefully. "I suppose he could be at that."
Jimenez's eyes narrowed with suspicion. "Young lady, you go hurting McNamara's feelings and you will find you are not too old, not too high and mighty, to find your old uncle pulling you over his knee and paddling you so that you cannot sit for a month."
Horrified, the niece shook her head. "Hurt him, Uncle? No . . . oh, nonono. I'm serious about this one. I intend to make him the happiest man in the world. Don't you see? He just . . . smells right. He's the right one. I swear; I'll never hurt him."
Still looking suspicious, Jimenez had to concede that Arti seemed sincere enough. "Very well then. You can hunt him, my little Diana. Though I foresee much wailing and gnashing of teeth from the Bachelor Officers' Quarters."
"Will you help, Xavier?"
"Brazen hussy. What is it with you and older men?"
"They're real men, Uncle Xavier, not boys. Besides, I was in love with you when I was a little girl and I guess that just typecast me for impossibly old men."
Slightly embarrassed, Jimenez thought about that, his head bobbing from side to side. At length, he had to agree. God knows, he'd been not nearly as much of a man at age twenty-five.
"Well . . . I suppose that my own sergeant major could use a little more advice . . . and perhaps I could, as well. And then there's the whole . . . well, never mind. I suppose I have been underutilizing this most impressive training asset. Niece, please invite Sergeant Major McNamara, Sergeant Major Escobedo and his wife, and Legate Guttierez and his wife to dinner, next . . . mmm . . . let's say next Friday. Mess dress? Yes, that will give us an opportunity to show off your not unimpressive . . . assets and give you a chance to see just how impressive Sergeant Major Mac can be in full regalia."
With a yelp of joy—with her uncle on her side, poor McNamara didn't stand a chance—Artemisia launched herself to wrap her arms around Xavier and squeeze him tight enough to collapse lungs. After a moment she backed up and looked at him seriously.
"Xavier," she said. "If you had not been my uncle, I would have gone after you."
Interlude
7/6/47 AC (Old Earth year 2106), Terra Nova, Balboa Colony
The shuttles came down in broad daylight, the better to intimidate the population.
Belisario Carrera, watching from a jungle-shrouded perch overlooking the ciudad, counted them as they descended. Multiplying by twenty-four, he came up with a number of new opponents that set his teeth to grinding and his stomach to churning.
Still, there's no way to tell from here, Belisario thought, how many are actually aboard, what their equipment is like, or what kind of soldiers they are. Hmmm . . .
"Pedro?" Belisario called, summoning a short, stocky and dark, loincloth-clad fighter.
"Si, jefe?" Pedro asked when he had crawled up to his leader's observation post. He massaged a sore shoulder as he lay upon the ground, gift of a captured UN rifle with altogether too much kick.
"I want you to . . . " Belisario began and then stopped. Pedro was a cholo, an indian, but he was also very nearly the brightest of Belisario's followers. He was among the bravest. If Belisario asked Pedro to go into town and spy, Pedro would certainly do it. But the risk?
I must risk it. I must risk him.
"Pedro," Belisario continued, "I need to know what we're facing. Can you go into town and look around for me?"
The cholo didn't say much, ever. He didn't now, either, but just nodded and began to slither backwards.
Belisario returned his attention to the town below and the parade of descending shuttles. So even here I cannot escape Earth and its corruption. Ah, well, at least here I can fight and have a chance. But I do wish that before I left I'd killed more slowly that UN bastard who wanted to trade me my own land for my daughter.
* * *
The ciudad wasn't really much of a ciudad. Even Pedro, cholo or not, knew that. Only the stone church had any real presence, at least since Belisario and his men had attacked and burned to the ground the local UN offices. It wasn't difficult for Pedro to keep a smile off his face as he passed the ruined UN compound. After all, there was a substantial group of uniformed men busily working to rebuild it.
Looking carefully at the soldiers, Pedro engraved on his mind the image his eyes saw. Big, strong, tough looking. Red cloths wound around their heads. Cloths look pretty neat. Might get one. Keep rifles close by or slung across backs. Hotter than shit and they still haven't taken off shirts. I smell trouble.
Pedro had his basic letters and numbers. He counted, in all, about one hundred and fifty before moving on.
I thought other fucking UN bastards looked tough, he thought, a few hundred more yards down the street. He, like the civilians of the town, rapidly got out of the way of another group of soldiers, marching silently in three files and about fifty ranks, separated into five groups. They short shits, like me. Eyes different, though. Skin lighter. But little fuckers look mean. And them big fucking curved knives they carrying? Scary.
After three-hundred of the toughest looking men he had ever seen, Pedro breathed a small sigh of relief as he got close enough to see the next group, just emerging from the shuttles.
Hah, that more like it. Them look like Botswanan fellahs we kick shit out of while back. Smell worse, though. Jesus, nobody tell dirty fuckers "Cleanliness next to Godliness?" I mean, I know water tight on fucking transport ships but . . . ewwww. It ain't like you sweat any in deep freeze. Them nasty fucks musta been stinky when board ship.
Then Pedro smelled something he had only ever smelt once before in his life. That time had been at Tocumen Airport, in Panama, on old Earth, as he had been about to board the aircraft that would take him to the United States to be shuttled up to the Amerigo Vespucci. He didn't know what caused it. At first he thought it might be the helicopters roaring by overhead.
But, no . . . them too far away . . . downwind, too.
A horn sounding behind him half scared Pedro out of his coppery skin. He turned quickly, and found himself staring into eyes that just emerged above a long, green painted, solid-looking slope. He looked above the eyes, looked further up to what appeared to be a pipe sticking out of a half a trash can stuck on front of the universe's biggest frying pan. Up; a machine gun mounted atop a flat roof, with a soldier nonchalantly resting one hand on the gun, while waving with the other for Pedro to clear away.
Oh, shit; they got tanks.
Chapter Thirteen
We could wait no more
In the burning sands on the ride to Agadir.
Like the dogs of war
For the future of this land on the ride to Agadir . . .
—Mike Batt, Ride to Agadir
28/2/468 AC, Firebase Pedro de Lisaldo, Pashtia
"Sayidi, it's not like they don't know we're coming for them," said Qabaash, in the confines of the conference room tent near the main command post for the Legion's expeditionary force. "And, to a considerable degree of certainty, when. We can choose the exact time and the place and even the manner, but we cannot choose the fact or the season. The Kibla Pass must be cleared; they know this. They will be waiting and they will be prepared."
"'Prepared' is possibly an understatement, boss," added Triste. "Even if what the FS Army has caught moving into the area represents ninety percent of everything that was sent up there by the Ikhwan, and it doe
sn't, that other theoretical ten percent is going to be a bitch, taken head on."
"What are we facing?" Carrera asked.
"A reinforced brigade," Triste answered. "I can't tell you exactly how reinforced they might be. Assume more than their fair share of heavy mortars, possibly even a few tanks, lots of RGLs . . . fair amount of anti-aircraft, guns and shoulder-fired guided missiles, both. That's all pretty concentrated on the best landing zones, too. Some of the guns are reported to be in caves that cover the LZs and which are a just plain bitch to see until it's too late.