Roberts didn’t count them; at that moment he couldn’t have counted his fingers. But he knew that there were thirty-nine.
And then, once again, he heard the voice.
“How do you do?” The woman stepped forward, her dress making a soft, shimmering sound like rippling water. She extended her hand. “You must be from the Admiralty?”
“Yes, ma’am,” he said, confused, taking hold of the hand, tingling at the touch. “And you are—”
“Jeremy McWilliams. Captain Jeremy McWilliams,” said the sultry voice.
“There must be some mistake,” said Captain John Roberts when he was able to persuade his dry tongue to say anything at all.
The woman laughed, hearty laughter that came from her throat and bubbled through Roberts’s veins like champagne. “You didn’t look at the ID disc, did you?” she asked. “But then, why should you? Seen one captain of the Fleet and you’ve seen them all.”
She shrugged the cream shoulders. Two thin straps were all that held the black dress up over what lay beneath those thirty-nine buttons and, when she shrugged, one of the straps slipped, falling down over her slender, round upper arm.
Roberts flushed. He remembered the stunned looks of the bronze gods in the sanctuary below. He recalled their voices, the hidden laughter as they looked at the disc. No, he realized, there was no mistake. The Fleet simply didn’t make mistakes. This—this was Captain Jeremy McWilliams! He could tell himself that, but, staring at the lovely woman, his brain was staggering around in a drunken stupor. Fortunately, the discipline of the navy gripped him firmly by the throat and slapped him across the face.
Hardly conscious of what he was doing, Roberts reached into the pocket of his uniform. “Captain Jeremy McWilliams,” he said in a voice that might have more appropriately come from the serve ‘bot, “I hereby present you with a commission calling you to active duty—”
He said a lot more—state of emergency, declaration of war, the date and that sort of thing. He believed at least some of it made sense. But he couldn’t recall. All he was aware of were green eyes that had suddenly become intent and serious. His hand trembling, Roberts handed Captain McWilliams the sealed packet containing her commission and her orders to report to duty to the nearest HQ.
Jeremy—he could think of her as a name, now, though what a name! —accepted the packet but did not look at it. Her eyes were on him. “I think you had better have that drink,” she said finally, with a smile.
“Yes, thank you,” Roberts replied, his voice cracking.
Clearing his throat, he followed her to a couch that seemed, from the way it molded itself to his body contours, to have been waiting all its life for him and him alone. The scent of the flowers was all around. So was her scent, different from the flowers, more alive, more animal. Instructing the serve ‘bot to make their drinks—Roberts never afterward knew what it was, he drank it but never tasted it—Jeremy sat down beside him in languorous fashion, drawing her legs—encased in the black silk—up on the couch and kicking her high-heeled shoes onto the thick carpet.
“Excuse me, er—Captain,” said Roberts, taking a gulp from his drink. “I know this sounds crazy, but—why Jeremy?”
“My name?” She smiled again. “What story would you like, Captain Roberts, I believe that is your name ... at least so Bruce told me?”
“Yes, I’m sorry,” he said, flushing. “John Roberts. But please call me John.”
“And we will forget rank and the fact that I am higher and you will call me Jeremy. Oh, yes,” she added, seeing his look of discomfiture, “I still keep in touch with the Fleet.” Jeremy made a graceful gesture toward a computer console. “It was easy to verify your identity through the naval office.”
“But access to their computers—that requires security clearance ...” began Roberts, appalled.
“Yes, it does,” Jeremy said nonchalantly. “Now, I believe you wanted to know about my name.” Leaning back against the cushions, her long red hair falling over her breasts, she looked at him through lowered eyelids, her finger running round and round the rim of her glass. “Which story would you like, John?” she repeated. “The one where my father was so disappointed he named me for the son he never had?” She shrugged again, causing the other strap to slide a little farther along her shoulder. “He might have, I suppose. But he didn’t stick around long enough to name me anything. Actually, Jeremy isn’t my real name. My real name’s Pearl. Surprised?
Roberts could only nod, and take another gulp of the cool liquor.
“Mother had a literary turn of mind,” Jeremy said. “Her name was Hester and she thought it appropriate, under the circumstances. I thought it atrocious. So, when I sent in my application to join the service, I changed it to Jeremy, figuring it might be useful to be mistaken for a man. And I chose Jeremy because that was the name of my first lover. Something which I think appropriate. Another drink?”
“N-no, thank you, I ... must be getting back to my ship,” Roberts stammered. “And you must have a lot of arrangements—”
“Oh, come on,” Jeremy said, motioning to the serve ‘bot. “You know you’re frightfully curious about all this.” She made a vague gesture that included the serve ‘bot, the drink, the room, the space station and may have even encompassed the universe as far as Roberts was concerned. “From naval hero to madam of a bordello?”
“Well, frankly, I—”
The serve ‘bot thrust a glass into Roberts’s nerveless hand and he drank, aware of a slight buzzing in his head, but not knowing whether it came from alcohol or the intoxicating presence of the woman near him.
“I got tired,” said Jeremy casually, “and I quit.”
“Quit?” Roberts appeared puzzled. “You mean you resigned?” They didn’t send commissions to people who had resigned.
“No,” Jeremy answered, sipping her drink, “I didn’t resign. I just quit. I’m not certain I told anyone either.”
Roberts choked. “You mean you’re AWOL?”
“That’s as good a term as any.” She shrugged again.
The strap of her dress slid down another fraction of a centimeter. Roberts tore his gaze away, trying to think. They certainly didn’t send commissions to officers who were absent without leave! “But—but—” He was incoherent.
“Ah, this?” Jeremy lifted the commission in her hand, thoughtfully and playfully tapping it against her mouth. Her lips were full and curved and she didn’t wear lip rouge, Roberts noticed. She had a habit of running her tongue over them every now and then, to keep them moist and shining. She did it then, letting her tongue touch the edge of the commission paper, and Roberts felt desire twist its knife in his gut. “This,” she said, “is, I imagine, dear old Dodsy’s way of getting me back in.” Sliding a finger beneath the seal, she opened the parchment—how the navy loved tradition—and read, her lips pursed. “Yes. I thought so.” She nodded, pointed to the signature, and sighed. “Dear man,” she said, “but thick-headed.”
Lord High Admiral Geoffrey Dodsworth. Dodsy. Roberts shuddered, slopping his drink on his best uniform.
“He’s a friend of mine,” Jeremy said, by way of explanation.
I can imagine, Roberts thought. God help me, I can imagine! He shook his head to clear it of the ... liquor.
“But why did you leave?” he demanded. “You were good—”
“I was damn good,” Jeremy said matter-of-factly. “Maybe the best!”
Roberts didn’t hear the interruption. He finished his drink and accepted another that the serve ‘bot had ready for him. “I’ve heard stories about you ever since I joined up!” he continued thickly. “War hero! The greatest pilot, revered captain, respected by his ... her men ... and now you’re a ... you’re a ...” The word was on his lips. He bit it back.
“A whore,” Jeremy said it for him.
“Why?” was all he could think of to ask.
She leaned toward him, her breasts full and ripe and kept from his touch, held in place by the first of those thirty-nine buttons. “Can’t you understand?” she said in a soft, low, sincere voice that thrilled him to the core of his being. “It was the killing. The death. I couldn’t take it anymore. So, I quit.” She shrugged again. The strap slid off her other shoulder, leaving them both bare.
“But what about ... honor?” Roberts said, disgust and desire warring within him, darkening his voice. “Dignity! You ... you sell your body, for god’s sake …”
“And you don’t?” she retorted, her voice rising sharply. “Ha!” She laughed again, but this time it was ugly, mirthless. “You sell it every day, Captain John Roberts! What’s worse, you sell your mind and soul along with it! Go here, go there. Kill this, destroy that. Where’s the honor in seeing your comrades blown to bits, in having their brains spattered over you and running down your uniform. Where’s the dignity in butchering some fellow creature whose only fault is that he’s sold his body just like you to some government that’s telling him to go out and butcher his fellow creatures?
“Look at you,” she gestured, sneering, “dressed in the uniform you wore the last time you were on active duty because they’ve forced you to live on half-pay until they could come up with another war to fight. And they’ll use you and, if you die, they’ll see you’re honorably buried—which means you’re tossed out into space in a plastic bag.
“Oh, no, Captain John Roberts,” Jeremy said, leaning back against the cushions, regarding him from beneath lowered lashes, “there is no difference between us, really. The Admiralty screws us both, it’s just the positions that differ. You’re vertical and I’m—generally—horizontal.”
Roberts’s face burned.
“I think you had better go, Captain,” Jeremy said, rising slowly and gracefully from the couch, her hands smoothing the silk of the black dress.
“You’ll be court-martialed!” Roberts said hoarsely, staggering to his feet. The room spun.
“Perhaps,” Jeremy said, and again there was that throaty, bubbling laughter. “Do you think they’ll find any officer to sit on the Board of Judgment that hasn’t been in my—”
Reaching out, Roberts caught hold of her and clasped her body to his. He tilted her head back and kissed her lips, kissed her passionately. She yielded to him, pressing against him, arousing him with practiced skill. His mouth went from her lips to her neck, his hand to the front of the black dress, his fingers fumbling with the first of those buttons.
And he felt her hands fumbling with the waist of his trousers—
Neatly, deftly, Jeremy stuffed the commission down the front of his pants. “Make love, not war, Captain,” she murmured.
“Damn you!” Angry and embarrassed, Roberts shoved her away from him.
“You’ll give the Admiralty my answer, won’t you, Captain Roberts?” she asked him, her voice cool and dark and smooth as the black silk dress.
“Damn you!” He gasped again. Jerking the commission out of his belt, he held it up before her. “Don’t you care about anything?” he shouted, panting for breath. “Doesn’t any of it mean anything to you? The service? The lives of those men you talked about?” My life? he wanted to scream at her. Everything I’ve worked for, lived for? Doesn’t that mean anything?
“Oh, yes,” said Jeremy softly. “It means something.” She ran her white hand, slowly and languidly, down the length of the black silk dress. “Didn’t you wonder, Captain? Why thirty-nine?”
Roberts could only stare at her, the room canting away beneath his feet, the blood pounding in his head.
“How many buttons are there on the full dress uniform of a naval officer, cadet?” Jeremy snapped, her voice the voice of Roberts’ instructor, way back in the days of basic training.
The words came to his lips but he didn’t say them. Turning slowly away from her, Roberts stumbled toward the tube, the thoughtful serve ‘bot whirring along beside him, one mechanical arm under his to assist him. It even helped him inside the tube with the care a mother might have given a sick child and gave the floor number of the first level. The doors slid shut with a soft whir and the tube descended, leaving Roberts’s stomach up there with the perfume and the black, silk dress.
Slumping down on the floor, clutching the crumpled commission in his hand, he murmured, “Thirty-nine ... sir. Thirty-nine ...”
It was a typical night for Port. The corridor lights glowed redly, supplying just enough illumination to walk comfortably. Occasionally Gill passed a marine patrol. He noticed that they were armed with slug throwers, not just stunners. Evidently someone had put Port on war status.
Few others were about at this hour. Particularly not this high in the complex. Normally Gill met only other displaced colonials like himself when visiting the sun garden. Those raised on Port never seemed to need relief from the drab sameness of its metal corridors.
From the darkened sun garden, the PR officer paused to survey the top of the city of Port, sole human habitation on the planet of Port. It was night and illumination came only from the distant star port and the irregular fire of the automated lasers that ringed the city. Beyond the city the tangled jungle was occasionally red when illuminated by laser fire.
Finding a lonely corner unoccupied by lovers, Gill hugged his knees and thought.
He had been more upset by the revelations he had unearthed that day than he wanted to admit. The part of him that refused to accept the careful cynicism of Public Relations was having trouble giving up parts of its pantheon. The whole situation was slinging his emotions into an unstable orbit.
It was three hours later when the tired officer had finally decided on what appeared to be a safe beginning to his PR campaign and stumbled back to his quarters.
The next morning he shocked everyone by improperly arriving half an hour late at his duty station. In the interest of discipline Gill forced himself to look contrite, but inside he was once more bolstered by the knowledge that he was finally doing something truly meaningful.
For several minutes he sat at his com console, reviewing the strategy he had decided upon. Rather than make one man or woman a hero, he would begin a media blitz showing how competent the Fleet was. He would build faith in the organization until people wanted to identify with it, even if only by paying a few credits more in taxes.
He’d even settled upon his first example. They all had to be real; too many Omnihounds were waiting to catch the Fleet in a deception. He’d commission a special Omni program on the activities of Admiral Esplendadore. It was perfect, a former hero supervising the efficient construction of a vital base. A scenario nothing could complicate.
I.
ON THE SEVENTH day of Generius, in the year 932, Local Style, shortly past the noon hour, the great alarm bells went off in the town hall tower. When they persisted past the tenth second, we knew this was not a test. The radar network must have detected an intruder ship entering our stratosphere, and I’m sure in the minds of everyone in the city was the same thought. The Khalian raiders had returned after almost twenty-seven years.
We had been carefully drilled in what to do. All were to proceed quietly, without panic, to the nearest entrance of the underground defense system. Of course you can’t defend yourself very well underground. But our only alternative was to remain on the surface and either be slaughtered or carried away as slaves by the Khalia—those furry fiends had invaded our planet three times in seventy-three years.
By charter, we are not permitted to have planetary defenses or guard ships. We gave away those rights hundreds of years ago when we joined the Alliance. Now we must put our faith in the Great Fleet which protects most of the human planets and their allies against the incursions of the Khalia and other intransigent alien species. It wouldn’t have done us much good to try to protect ourselves: Trinitus is a small world with a total population of les
s than five million. There is only one city worthy of the name: Panador, my home. Still it irked us to give up the elementary right to self-defense.
The Fleet worked well for us, but they were spread pretty thin across I don’t know how many millions of miles of space. With over three hundred heavily populated planets to guard, it was natural that some would get neglected. It was also natural that the ones that got neglected would be worlds like Trinitus V, with small populations far from where most of the human populations dwelled.
Our underground defense system was actually a series of great caverns and natural tunnels existing beneath Panador, which we had extended over the centuries. Generally the Khalia couldn’t be bothered going down into the tunnels after us. What they sought were our goods and our foods. Only if they were on a slave raiding expedition would they pursue us down into the caverns. Sometimes there were desperate battles in the darkness, where the close confines of the space tended to make our weapons more or less equal to theirs.
The tunnels were well laid out for defense. Scattered here and there were caches of weapons and ammunition, food, water, and fresh clothing. I had learned how to handle the short-range laser pistol and the various grenades which we were permitted to use in our self-defense. Though I was a girl and just eighteen that month, I was as good a shot as anyone. Although this was a terrible thing that was happening to us, yet I couldn’t help but feel a thrill of excitement, for girls are permitted to have heroic dreams, too. I had long had fantasies of defending my parents with a blazing laser pistol in either hand.
There was no time to go home and find my parents. We had been told to go into the nearest underground entrance when the alarm sounded. So I entered the tunnel shaft near the Theagenes Theater. If I had been thinking more clearly I would have wasted a few more minutes and gone to one of the entrances nearer to my home, because I knew the passageways around there tolerably well. One of the first things we learned in school was the layout of our home tunnel systems and how they fed into the main tunnels. No one could be expected to know all of the twistings and turnings of our defense system, because new additions were always being added, and dead end mazes were often put up to baffle invaders.
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