Cally's War

by John Ringo

  "Three cheers for music to sleep to," she muttered to herself.

  In her room, the freshly cleaned evening bag went in the top drawer of one dresser, with a dozen or so others. The wallet, less the cash, went in a thumbprint-locked and trapped drawer at the bottom, with a few dozen others. Sarah Johnson from Chicago hadn't been burned—well, the identity hadn't, anyway—and might be useful again.

  The new T-shirt and very well-cleaned jeans went on hangers in the closet. The underwear, also new, went into the laundry hamper. She walked over to the triple full-length mirrors and looked at herself, front and back. No scars, no signs. But there never are. She leaned forward and examined eyes that were again her own cornflower blue. She bared her teeth and looked at them from all angles—perfect, as usual. Not the slightest sign that anything had been damaged.

  She walked into the bathroom and set the glass next to the sink, grabbed a clean washcloth from the linen closet, padded back to her bed and set it down on the night table.

  Hopefully this one was good for a couple of days of downtime, at least.

  She used the bedside touch pad to bring the volume down to a soft background level, and set it to shuffle through the night. Another touch of the pad turned on active countermeasures. Rolling over and clutching her pillow in a way that was oddly like a child with a stuffed animal, she drifted off to sleep.

  Tibet. Before the war her height would have marked her in a crowd. Postwar, with Americans everywhere there were still humans, she was unremarkable with mouse-brown cropped hair and a red parka. And now in the house, in a darkened bedroom. The former Party official had sped up the initial Posleen conquest by two weeks, and won himself twenty years of borrowed time. One of his children squealed at the TV in another room. The garrote made no noise at all.

  Ireland. An American official on vacation. Tourism never died, it seemed. No witnesses, but he's all in black, a player? His neck cracks so easily, and he rolls as he falls, and it's white it wasn't supposed to be white what why was he here? God, no. No.

  The light is red and it smells of incense and books. He's puttering around the sanctuary. A slow day. Father will you hear my confession? There, yes, through the door. What? Outside. Snow falling. The doors locked. Can't get in. Always the same. Can't get back in.

  Florida. Swimming with dolphins. Mom's with me. She's proud of me. And the water's cool, and the sun hot. Silly Herman. There'll be key lime pie tonight, and a hug from Dad at bedtime.

  She woke with a smile on her face and absently flipped the countermeasures off, reaching for the washcloth to dry her face. In thirty years I haven't woken alone without my face soaking wet. But I sleep like a baby, thank God. I love living in a beach town. She sat up and padded over to the dresser, thumbing the bottom drawer open. "So, who do I want to be today? Not Sarah. Let's see, local, fun, not a brain but not a ne'er do well . . . Pamela. She'll do. Tan, perfect nails. A manicure, pedicure, an afternoon of serious shopping, then an evening out." She looked at her reflection in the mirror. "Just what the doctor ordered, Pamela."

  She set the hot pink leather wallet on the dresser and closed the drawer, grabbing a miniscule bra and panties in matching silver-gray lace. She showered, and washed her hair, adding the tiniest hint of dark at the roots and such, Pamela not being a natural blonde. She pulled out a bottle of gray lotion and applied it carefully, rinsing and checking the result. As always, no streaking, no fading, no patches, and absolutely no tan lines.

  She went back to her closet and stood for a minute, finding the role. "Pamela. Smart, casual. Likes pinks, grays." She put a pink v-necked blouse, a pair of gray pedal pushers, and a burlap beach bag on the bed, and took a pair of brown strappy flats out of one of the cubbyholes built into the closet wall. "Watch? Yeah, brown-strapped analog." She added them to the beach bag.

  After she was dressed, she went looking for breakfast. Pamela meant grapefruit, but first she frowned over Sarah's shoes on the living-room floor and went to put them in their proper place.

  After breakfast, she drove to the mall. There was only the one in New Charleston so far, but it was always crowded. Ex-urbies adjusting to surface life tended to find it comfortingly reminiscent of home, and even teenage Charleston natives appreciated the air conditioning. Low Country Nails and Spa was on the lower level near one end, and she walked in with a smile ready, fastening on a curly-haired brunette who was puttering behind the counter.

  "Jeannie?" she said.

  "Pamela!" The other girl greeted her with a sunny smile, "Where have you been hiding, girl, it's been weeks!"

  "Visiting my mom and sister in the Cairo Urb, and boy, am I glad to see the light of day again! Got time for a bunch? I need my hands and feet done and I would just die for one of your cucumber facials."

  "How on earth did you keep that tan in an Urb?" The other girl came out from behind the counter and gently ushered her back to a seat at a small table set with the tools of her trade. "You must have been using a sun bed every other day."

  "Just about that. Would that watermelon pink go with my skin, or should I go with more of a rose today?"

  "Hmm. Let's see . . ." She held a couple of bottles of nail polish up against Cally's hands. "I think you can carry off the watermelon. In a bit of a playful mood?"

  "In a mood for some serious fun." Cally grinned mischievously. "The Urb was like being buried alive."

  "They always are." Jeannie tsked softly. "Girlfriend, you are under way too much stress, and you're not eating right." She held up one of Cally's fingers where she'd just trimmed a cuticle. "Look at these ridges. But I'm not too surprised. Family can be the worst for stress, and they still don't get very good food underground. Not like you can get out here."

  "That's for sure. Urb cafeterias do not serve she-crab stew."

  "Seafood's all right, but you've got to eat your fresh veggies or you'll be old before your time. And drink lots of water. Give me a minute." She stepped into the back and came out with a pair of glasses and a pitcher of ice water. "Here. Distilled and remineralized. Best water this side of the Blue Ridge."

  Seven hours later Cally put away two new outfits and a pair of shoes, did her hair, added a couple of strands of freshwater pearls, and went back out for pub grub, some decent music, and whatever fun she could find tonight. One good thing about a beach town. Even after the Postie war, there's always something. Pappas Street down near El Cid is always good for some fun.

  Oddly enough, the Citadel had suffered little actual damage in the war. Charleston had been thoroughly evacuated, so there had been no food, from the Posleen view. Many historic buildings had been left completely intact, along with the Battery, and the centuries old military school. Nobody knew quite what the Posties had seen in the collection of white, crenellated buildings—only that the campus had suffered a very little careful looting and had been recaptured virtually intact. It had recently celebrated the thirty-fifth anniversary of its reopening as a university and training academy for future Fleet Strike officers. While graduation did not guarantee a commission in the postwar world, it opened vast fields of opportunity and acceptance was highly coveted by young men as a ticket out of the constrained life of the Urbs.

  Where there were young men, there were bars, and music, and nobody she had to kill. Usually. All in all, a good place to have a good time.

  Chapter Two

  Old Tommy's Pub was always good, getting both the liquid and musical imports fresh off the boat from Ireland. Irish music, with its irrepressible ability to make the best of a hard lot, was enjoying something of a revival. Even if ballads and marches about armored ACS knights facing centauroid monsters weren't strictly traditional, Ireland's modern bards recognized their cultural value in a post-Posleen world and rose to the task brilliantly. A bodhran not only fit on a small pub stage, it also laid a surprisingly good foundation for the screaming treble of a vintage Stratocaster. Well, it would be screaming in a couple of hours, anyway. Right now the instruments were cased and a couple of the gu
ys sitting in the corner grabbing a bite were probably the musicians. With that hair, they sure weren't cadets.

  Cally pulled up a barstool and ordered a Killians and a seafood salad, then spent the next hour or so flirting with the bartender and waiting for the band to start. The cadets came in in dribs and drabs through the evening. Most of them looked too young to shave and were strictly no-touchies, no matter how much they tried to catch her eye, but one of them looked a little older than the rest and moved like he was prior service, even though the marks on his summer whites indicated a junior—with a fine butt. He'd do.

  She caught his eye and raised her glass, offering a friendly smile. He froze for a second and looked back over his shoulder, as if unsure she was looking at him, and excused himself from his buddies, bringing his bottle of Bud over as his friends tried not to be too obvious about taking bets on a crash and burn.

  "Uh . . . hi. Mind if I join you?" He set his beer on the bar at the empty stool next to her.

  "I'd like that."

  "I'm Mark." He looked at her practically full beer with something like desperation and offered, "Um . . . come here often?" Then just as obviously sat cursing himself for saying something so trite and unbrilliant.

  "Not often enough, since I haven't met you." She smiled kindly and offered her hand. "I'm Pamela. Been at the Citadel long?"

  "See these stripes? They mean I'm a junior." He grinned easily, back on familiar ground, "Freshmen have none, sophomores one, seniors are those guys walking around in blazers. But I'm actually going into my second year. Prior service." His chest puffed up a tiny bit, probably subconsciously, as he said the last.

  "Oh? Where'd you serve?"

  "Africa. There just aren't enough humans there to permanently displace the Posleen, and the Posties inherit skills that humans would have to learn. So Fleet Strike has forces there that rotate through on semi-random sweeps to try to dislodge the small bands of ferals before they become big bands."

  "Was it hard? Even ferals are so big." She leaned an elbow on the bar and sat forward slightly, eyes wide. "I've only seen them on the holotank, of course. You must really be brave to have volunteered for that. Were you in, you know, one of those armored suits?"

  "Don't I wish." He shook his head. "Those guys are really hard core, and they only take the very best. We didn't have very many of them in Africa. Most of them are out on the new planets tossing the Posties off to make room for colonists." He grinned faintly. "Sometimes ACS will take a new service academy graduate with a really good record, so I've still got a shot." His eyes flickered down to her chest, occasionally, but overall he was fighting a valiant battle to keep them in the vicinity of her face, "So what about you, what do you do?"

  "Nothing near as interesting as killing Posleen." She grinned and held up a perfect hand, "I'm a manicurist. Nails and sympathy, that's me."

  "And gossip?"

  "Maybe just a teensy bit." She laughed, wrinkling her nose at him.

  "So . . . um . . . did you grow up in Charleston? I guess in the old days you could tell by the accent, but . . ."

  "No, I grew up in the Cairo Urb. But I liked the sun," she gestured to her tan and shrugged, "and I love the beach, so here I am."

  "Ah, a genuine beach bunny. Not many of those around anymore." His hand was gentle as he took hers. "Just an old-fashioned girl, huh?"

  "Well, a bit," she admitted, squeezing his hand and licking her lips slightly. "Oh, hey, I love this song."

  He listened with her until the end of "The Holy Ground," signaling the bartender for another beer.

  "So, you like Irish music?" he asked.

  "Yeah, some. I'm more a fan of prewar dance mixes. I'm not a sitting still type, you know?" She pulled a pack of Marlboros out of her purse and started to light one, but paused when he winced. "Oh, I'm sorry. Does the smoke bother you?" The bar was heavy with the usual cloud of tobacco smoke, so she raised an eyebrow at him curiously.

  "Only that you'd do that to yourself. My Gran died last week. Lung cancer. She cut way back during and after the war, when tobacco was scarce, but I guess it wasn't enough." He frowned, "I'm sorry to be a downer, I just . . . it's still fresh, I guess."

  "Well, it's not like they're addictive anymore, but I'm sorry I brought your mind back to sad stuff." She shoved the pack back in her purse and laid a soft hand on his arm. "You know what you need? To get your mind right off it. Decos is just down the street." She waved at the stage. "This stuff is too much when you're already down. Dance it out of your system. That's what I always do when it gets really bad. Let's get out of here."

  "Sure." He shook himself very slightly and nodded to his friends as they left.

  Two hours later a light sheen of sweat dried on her skin in the salt air as she rode behind him on his bike to one of the hotels that catered to tourists from the heartland. When he pulled into the parking lot and stopped, she let go of his waist and climbed off slowly, reluctant to relinquish his warmth.

  "This has got to be hell on your uniforms," she said, gesturing at the bike.

  "Well, yeah. I pretty much keep it garaged except on weekends. But yeah, I do go through uniforms a bit." He sighed, "I really hate to ask but would you mind waiting with the bike while I get us a room? I don't know if they'd be weird about it if you were with me."

  They couldn't care less, but I don't want to admit I know that. "Oh, sure. The moon's nice tonight, and it's warm. I'll just watch it and enjoy the fresh air till you get back."

  "Um . . . be back in just a minute." He straightened himself and walked towards the doors to the lobby with a slightly exaggerated assuredness.

  They were within a couple of blocks of the Wall, and as she stood in the parking lot she could see it behind a couple of vacant lots and low businesses, cutting the skyline between apartment buildings. She supposed if she was home more she wouldn't smell the salt as much, but tonight it was strong on the air and she watched the few stars visible through the haze above the still fronds of the palmettos.

  * * *

  When he walked back out with the key, she was leaning back against his bike with her eyes closed, face turned up to the sky.

  "You're not going to sleep on me, I hope," he teased.

  She shook her head and swallowed something, probably gum, because her mouth was fresh and sweet when he drew her up against him and kissed her, softly at first, but responding enthusiastically when she deepened the kiss.

  "Um . . . let's go inside," he said when they came up for air, looking around the parking lot a trifle self-consciously before taking her hand and leading her up the stairs to the second-floor room.

  Inside the door, she moved into his arms and slid her hands up his chest. He cupped her butt with one hand and tangled the other in that beautiful, silky blond hair. She was so slim it felt like he might break her if he hugged too hard.

  She caught his jaw in her hands and kissed him hungrily as she backed towards the bed, playfully letting go and allowing herself to fall backwards with a big grin as soon as the backs of her legs met the edge.

  "Come into my parlor, said the spider to the fly. . . ." She undid the top button of her pedal pushers and blew him a kiss.

  He laughed and lay down beside her, playing with the cleft between her breasts made accessible by the vee of her blouse.

  "Is that from something?" he asked, leaning down and kissed her temple. "Never mind." He trailed his lips back down to her mouth to be devoured again.

  She pulled back and caught his eyes as she pulled her shirt off and dropped it over the side of the bed, followed by her bra, then traced a finger down the front of his whites.

  "Does that come off?" She licked her lips softly, tilting her head to the side and watching him watch her.

  "Pamela, you're beautiful. Here." He unfastened his jacket, grimacing a little at the dingy grayish-white undershirt and suspenders underneath and getting them out of the way as fast as possible.

  "Mmmm. Nice. . . ." She pressed herself up against him and
buried her face in his shoulder, inhaling deeply before planting a row of tasting kisses along his collarbone.

  He groaned and pressed both hands flat against her back, burying his face in her hair and inhaling the clean freshness of it. "Pamela," he breathed as he brought one hand around to cup her breast. He couldn't resist kneading it, it was so warm, and soft, and round. Perfect. He suddenly needed to get their pants off and shuddered slightly. It would be so easy to go too fast. How could he not go too fast. She was silken and warm and fresh and moving against him and he suddenly needed her desperately.

  "Shhh. Gently." She broke the kiss and pushed him onto his back, softly. "Let me give you a treat." She finished undressing them slowly and kept just a slight bit away from him, even when he would have held her again, so that by the time she climbed on top and let him enter her he was no longer afraid of embarrassing himself.

  God, she had muscles in there he didn't know women had, and it felt like heaven, but as he crested almost to the peak, he thought he'd die when she stilled for a moment and held his hands, smiling softly.

  "Mmmm. Not yet. It gets better." Then when his breathing slowed, she'd start to move again, just enough. Always just enough.

  She teased him to the brink, again and again, with those diabolical muscles, always gently and tenderly backing off to let him calm down, always just enough that when she finally pulled him on top of her and gave him the control he was dying to take, they were both panting. She touched his face softly as she went over the brink and his world exploded in a mind-shattering orgasm that left him quiet and still in its wake. Her legs were still clasped behind his thighs and underneath him she was curled into his chest with a tight softness that seemed tinged faintly with desperation. He kissed her hair gently and rolled onto his back, trying to understand why he suddenly felt so sad.