by Black, Alan
"I think you do, Trooper Slezak. I suggest you request legal counsel now. No? That is fine by me. We both know you just tried to frag me in the sim."
"No, I didn't. It was an equipment malfunction. I documented that for the record. You can even check the suit logs for the damage. You can't prove anything else," Slezak whined.
"Oh, but I can. Slezak, you are stupid on three counts. Point one, I would accept the excuse of an equipment malfunction on one H.E. round, but you fired three. Your suit would have warbled a friendly fire alarm after the first round and shut down. You had to manually toggle the firing switch for each round. Point two, the computer timeline shows your suit took damage after you released the rounds. Point three, you tried to frag me in a sim? Are you that much of an idiot?" Misha said.
"It isn't real anyway. It wouldn't have really killed you. It's just a game," Slezak said.
"I believe we must amend your count of stupidity to four. People die in sims, trooper. They have for years. Ask Steinman how it feels to have your legs crushed. It is true very few APES die because of our physical conditioning. Our hearts are strong enough to take the stress. It is also true that there is abundant statistical data to bring you up on charges of attempted murder."
"Third McPherson?" a voice called from across the training bay.
Misha held up a finger to ask the voice for one minute.
"You just don't get it do you, Slezak? You're red-lined as of now. Confine yourself to solitary in the squad bay. Post the order in writing on your bunk. Anytime, and I mean anytime, another APE is in the squad bay, you are to remain sealed in your bunk with the blast shutters down. Do it now." She stood watching as Slezak headed out the side hatch toward the squad bay. Misha thought she saw Slezak and Singletary share a passing glance, but it was furtive enough she couldn't be certain.
She turned to see who had called her. Standing by the hatch were the two spacer security escorts from before yesterday's dinner. Certain it was more bad news, Misha shook her head as she went to the hatch to greet them.
"Have my hall monitors come to visit?" Misha said.
"Not quite," said the short male. "Colonel Britaine requests that you meet him at 13:00 hours for a late lunch. He sent us to make sure you attended and didn't get lost. Get the meaning?"
"Yes, I think I do," Misha replied. She turned to Sergeant Forrester. "I am sorry Gan, but it seems I have been summoned again. I have to beg off our lunch date. Whatever his reasons, I do have to talk to Colonel Britaine. Besides, I hear you really should check out Deuce Taks cooking."
After a silent and tense walk, her two escorts delivered her to Britaine's office instead of the officer's mess. They bracketed the hatch and stood at ease.
Misha shook her head in wonder and pushed the comm button on the office hatch. A small chime sounded and the hatch opened silently. She stepped across the threshold and into the office.
The room had been reset as a dining area for two, complete with a table cloth, lit candles and what looked like real china table service. Any desk or office cabinets that might have been there were missing, probably shoved into a connecting room behind one of the other hatches. A bottle of wine was chilled to a perfect one degree Celsius in a crystal bucket; the neo-ice sparkling a deep electric blue.
Growing up on DropSix, Misha's family ate on banged up metal plates with common stainless steel forks and spoons. Hunting and work knives were used at family meals instead of table knives. Meals were raucous times with everyone talking at once. Food was not passed; it was grabbed. Rolls were tossed, whether they were buttered or not. Laughter and wrestling matches broke out with equal commonality. It was a fun, family time.
However, Misha's mother taught all of her children a variety of customs and manners for many different types of societies. She knew that in polite society, you didn't talk with food in your mouth and you chewed with your mouth closed. She knew which fork was for shellfish and which spoon was for the sorbet. She knew that on Camden Prime you ate snails with your fingers and on New China you ate snails with tiny trident-like forks. She knew a spitlaise was a fine wine from the fourth harvest of grapes in the western European region of Earth One and a frostaire was a really crappy wine from any harvest on Gastalt. Britaine was in for a surprise if he meant this lunch to be intimidating.
The only person in room was the same master sergeant Misha had seen on her first day aboard. He apparently served as Britaine's steward. She nodded to him and gave him a quick smile.
"If it pleases the Third," he said, pulling her chair out and gesturing her to her seat.
"Thank you, Master Sergeant," she said. "I presume my host is delayed?"
"Yes, Third, he should be along in about…" The man consulted his glass-pack's time piece, "ninety seconds."
True enough, in ninety seconds Britaine stepped into the room. He smiled broadly at Misha as she stood to greet him. He waved her back into her seat. "Good afternoon, Third McPherson." He sat opposite her and dismissed the steward with a wave of his hand. "I thought it might be best for us to meet alone and put some air under our wings to give our relationship a bit more lift.
"I agree, Colonel. We do not have much time together, but I believe we can spend that time for our mutual benefit."
"I am glad you said that, Third. I know we just had an unfortunate clash since we are both powerful people. Who knows, we may both be on the Kiirkegaard for a long time," Britaine said. "Wine? It is a strong, heady vintage from the Australian Compact Sector. From the New Queensland region, I believe." He tapped his glass-pack signaling for the steward.
Misha smiled. “I have heard produce from the Australian Compact was considered contraband, so I am eager to see what they have to offer."
Britaine smiled, "Well, rank doth have its privileges."
Behind Britaine's back the Master Sergeant's eyes rolled upward and he quickly turned his head away from Misha's glance.
Britaine filled her glass and said. "I offer a toast to the Allied Systems and to new friendships."
"To the Allied Systems and to new friendships," she replied. Silently, she added, "Whoever they may be."
The master sergeant quickly served their meal and silently disappeared. Misha enjoyed the food despite having to listen to Britaine's monologue about his career. She only needed to add a "hum" or "ah" occasionally to hold up her end of the conversation.
While the meal began to wind down it was obvious Britaine was not. He continued to ramble from one self-aggrandized heroic tale to the next. Misha dabbed her mouth with her napkin, placed it on her plate and waited patiently for an opening. Finally, Britaine took a break for air.
Misha quickly interrupted, "You know, Colonel. I could sit and share war stories for hours on end. I have enjoyed myself immensely. But, I was wondering if I could seek your advice?"
"Certainly, that is what I am here for," he smiled.
Misha thought to herself, "I am sure that is what you think. I wonder why he really asked me to lunch." She had a brief visual image of Britaine's hands sliding softly over her naked skin. With a quick shake of her head, she cleared the picture from her mind. Yes, he was gorgeous and he might be fun in the rack, but he was an arrogant prick. The sex wouldn't be worth the problems. She thought, "I doubt if he is looking at me as more than another notch on his flight stick."
Misha smiled at Britaine, "I am planning on working my APES as hard as I possibly can."
"Good for you," he applauded. "They need a bit of shaping up."
"Yes, Colonel, they are a good bunch of people, but we do have a long way to go. I can only push them in APES training so far. I am not worried about their physical conditioning. For the most part, that seems to be from very good to excellent. I don't want them to go into mental overload before we get to our destination."
"Yes, I can see how that might be a problem with your people," Britaine nodded. "I can make our library and game rooms available to you as a diversion, if that would help?"
"Well, Colonel.
I am not sure I am worried about recreation at this point. We don't have that much time left. I do not want to leave my APES with much free time, but I don’t want to keep pushing training sessions and inspections on them all day every day. I would like to request permission to integrate my APES with your spacers on a time permitting basis. This would allow my people to use some of their secondary and tertiary skills. Many of them transferred from the AMSF to the APES. This should keep them mentally active, but off of their normal duties. Keep them from going stale, as it were."
Britaine looked thoughtful, "Well, I can see how that might benefit your people, but I don't think so. I don't want to be blunt, but my crew doesn't need any ham-handed grunts mucking about. Present company accepted."
Misha smiled sweetly and nodded.
He continued. "I hope you understand. My officers and I have built a highly trained war machine. I am sure your people may have been, shall we say, adequate when they were with the AMSF. But really, that may have been ten or fifteen years ago, or even more. And I am sure you know if they were any good with the AMSF, then they would not have left to become a grunt, right?"
Misha continued smiling sweetly, "Thank you for lunch, Colonel. It has been very enlightening. If you will excuse me, I do have to go baby sit my children."
Britaine, oblivious to the sarcasm in her voice, stood to show her out. Misha felt his hand slide along the small of her back as he guided her to the hatch. She adjusted her uniform slightly, giving it a small tug to dislodge his hand. She smiled at how nice it felt in a creepy sort of way.
Chapter Sixteen
AMSF Master Sergeant Twiller Bruce, the Colonel's steward bumped into APES Second-Level Commander Rice Bilideau, Dawg Squad's general supplies clerk. They were alone in one of the Kiirkegaard's storage holds.
"Well, Beans," Bruce said. "It sure seems like your new boss and the OAIC have finally made a truce."
"OAIC?" Bilideau asked.
"Yeah. You know: Old Asshole in Charge, that serious waste of an officer’s uniform, Old-Scrotum-For-Brains, Britaine."
Bilideau looked thoughtful. "The last word I heard was they weren't getting along."
"Crap!" Bruce said. "That must be a cover for what is really going on. I tell you they just had one of Britaine's quiet, intimate lunches. And you know what I mean by intimate, right?"
"Yeah, I heard he ran our Deuce Vark through one of his lunches. It was a lunch that lasted all afternoon. She came back all smiles and cheery, you know. But, he must have got what he wanted and dumped her fast. She got blocked out of the officer's country faster than a thick turd gets stuck in a plugged toilet," Bilideau said.
"Her and every other thing with female DNA on this bird," Bruce agreed.
"Except that old chief master sergeant you got in intelligence. What's her name?"
"You mean Chief Brown? Yeah, I think he’s scared of her. Hell, most of us are scared of her. She’s tougher'n sun soaked shoe soup. Her nickname is Dead-eye and she got the name on the gun range. I know Britaine thinks with his dick and it is may be hard to tell but I don't think he is that stupid."
Bilideau nodded, "So, how come you think he dicked McPherson? And why the hell would he? I mean, she ain't much of a looker."
"I don't know about that. She is attractive enough in her own way," Bruce said.
"Yeah, like my dog's butt!" Bilideau grimaced.
"Hell's bells, grunt. I've been Britaine's steward for almost a standard year now. He would boff her for no other reason than the challenge. And I saw them come out all friendly and smiling. I've seen it before. Man, he even put his hand on her ass in front of his security goons. Yeah, he tapped into her goodies for sure."
Chapter Seventeen
Forrester shook his head as the young spacer walked away. As always, he was amazed at the amount of information he could gather just by wandering the hallways and indulging in a bit of gossip here and there. He was certain eighty percent of all gossip had a truth at its roots, and fully half of all gossip dealt with mission or command-related issues.
It only was a few hours since McPherson’s lunch with Britaine. Already the rumor and propaganda machine was generating its usual swill about their tryst. "Not that I care," he tried to tell himself, but he caught himself at his own lie. He wasn't jealous even if it was true. Forrester just liked Misha. She was almost too good for her own good. She had great potential. It would be a shame to see her command collapse because of a mistaken affair with a jerk like Britaine.
Forrester knew the enlisted crew hated Britaine. Britaine's fellow officers didn't hate him, but universally distrusted him. In the past, Britaine burned too many contemporaries in his climb up the promotion ladder. The hatred, resentment and wariness were almost palatable.
Contact between spacers and APES was limited, but on a spacecraft, even one this big, it was impossible to hold back any rumor this juicy from spreading into both camps. Forrester was sure he was not the first person outside of the AMSF who heard of what supposedly went on between Britaine and McPherson. As a matter of fact, Forrester already heard the story three times, each time with differing details.
When Forrester pressed this last spacer about whether it was rumor or truth the man had replied, "It's gotta be true: where there is water someone is gonna get wet."
Forrester doubted whether McPherson had been seen buttoning up her uniform as she left Britaine's office. He doubted it for two reasons. One: he didn't think she was that foolish or careless. Two: APES uniforms don't have buttons.
Still, he intended to hunt her down. He might find out a bit of truth if he could be tactful enough. Forrester wasn't an incurable gossip. He long ago accepted himself as a true died-in-the-wool analyst. He would worry at a problem or a puzzle until it unraveled revealing its secrets. McPherson was definitely a puzzle.
Forrester found McPherson in her day office. She was sitting with her feet on the desk scanning rapidly through data on her glass-pack, flashing images against a blank bulkhead. The room was now spotless since her predecessor had left. He could see she hadn't added one iota of clutter to the room. It was bare and clean as if no one had ever used it. No personal items were visible.
Forrester tried an old fashioned knock on the hatch frame.
Startled at the sudden noise, Misha looked up. "Well, Sergeant Forrester. Are you here to beg off of this afternoon's training? Did Charlie Squad run you through the spin cycle, already?
Forrester smiled. "Actually, I wanted to thank you for the time your people gave me. Taks is a very instructive man to have around."
"Yes," she said. "Not too instructive, I hope. We don't want all of our APES secrets leaking out to the Marshal Service."
Forrester laughed, "It is nothing like that, I can assure you. After what you put me through this morning, I am not sure I want to know about any secrets if you have any of them."
"I am sure you've heard the first day of training is always the hardest. Well, that is hogstuffings; the first day is always the easiest." She smiled. "Keep on coming, Gan. We will make an APE out of you yet."
"We will not make an APE of me at my age, child. However, I will try to keep up with you folks for most of this trip. Lord knows I can use the exercise." He patted a non-existent paunch.
"So, Gan, are you on a mission or did you just wander by my office for a social call?"
"A little of both and some of neither," he replied. "You know how we Marshal Service guys are; we're always spreading rumor and propaganda."
"Ah," Misha said. "My lunch with Britaine has hit the gossip circuit?"
"Well, now that you mention it, I do seem to have over heard a thing or two," he said.
"It was lunch, a bit of idle chatter and some minor business discussions. It was nothing more; end of story," Misha said.
Forrester frowned. "I am not trying to get into your personal business, Misha. No, don't interrupt. Just accept this bit of advice from a nice meddling old man. Britaine doesn’t have a good reputation with women.
Be careful of him. Nothing has to happen for people to think it happened. It is old advice, but try to avoid the appearance of anything wrong, okay?"
"Not okay. It is none of your business. Nothing happened between Britaine and me," Misha caught herself blushing. "Dammit, Gan, look what you made me do."
"That is an interesting shade of red." He smiled trying to ease the tension. "He is a pretty sort of fellow, isn't he?"
Misha's blush deepened. She looked for something to throw at Forrester.
"Easy, Misha," he laughed. "I believe you. Nothing happened with Britaine. I didn't believe it when I came in here. I am just passing along what I heard. He isn't a very well liked commander and that is putting it mildly. You could get hurt by association."
"Your warning is taken, mother. Do you want me to clean my room and do my homework, too?" she continued. "Hey! Have you had much time on skid plates? We are giving our rookies training this afternoon at 15:00 hours. Be there?"
Chapter Eighteen
Second Jackson looked at the seven newbies gathered around him, four from his Foxtrot Squad and three from Second Portland's Easy Squad. McPherson also saddled him with the sergeant from the Marshal Service.
Jackson thought, "Not a bad bunch of rookies. Hell, I've seen worse." He said loudly, "Damn sorry looking bunch of FNGs, I swear I haven't seen a worse looking bunch of numb-nuts in all my years. But, maybe you ain't hopeless. For that matter, even if you are hopeless, it doesn’t matter. We are in this together, got it?"
A rousing chorus of ‘roger that’ answered him.
"You!" Jackson shouted at a trooper. “What are you?" She was a short woman from Easy Squad.
"Trooper Nine Sheila Ramirez, I am Easy Squad's medical technician," the woman shouted.
Jackson shouted back. "No. Dammit. I didn't ask who you are. I asked what you are. You are a combat grunt; a malevolent, unpleasant killing instrument. You are one bad ass, tough s.o.b. You are infantry in the Allied Protective Expeditionary Services. You are an APE. You are armored infantry. You are armored, mobile infantry. There is heavy emphasis on mobile and extra emphasis on hostile."