by Jean Johnson
Ia flexed her right shoulder. “Back in its socket, and cleared for combat, sir.”
Bennie grinned. “No scars again, I take it?”
Ia shrugged. “Nope. Still none. I heal too well. Doctors think it’s the high metabolism and high cellular density working overtime together.”
“And how are you sleeping at night?” This time, the chaplain’s tone was softer, yet more pointed.
She didn’t dissemble. “Lousy. The burn-out survivors on that catalyzed domeworld were bad enough, but . . . the ones that didn’t make it . . . The people I couldn’t save are haunting my dreams again.” The two of them waited a moment for the next section seal to cycle them through, then Ia continued. “But I’m cleared for all activities again. That’ll help.”
“And you’re quite good at it. Are you going off-ship on Leave?” Bennie asked.
Ia shrugged. The movement didn’t make her shoulder so much as twinge, which was a relief. Popping it out of its socket had not been a pleasant experience, and a dumb move on her part. Lieutenant D’kora was half the heavyworlder she was, but the woman could certainly move on a combat practice mat. “For an hour or two. The Captain wanted to see me for a chat, first.”
“Anything up, this time?” Bennie asked.
Ia mock-clawed her fingers. “He’s secretly a zombie, and wants to pick my braaaaaaiiinsss . . .”
She laughed. The chaplain gave her an odd look, then chuckled softly as well. Bennie also shook her head. “You have a very strange sense of humor, Ia.”
Shaking it off, Ia sighed. “Just the usual weekly review of the troops under my purview.”
“Good luck with that. Maybe I’ll see you down in Frostie’s?” the chaplain added, stopping with Ia as they reached the lifts.
Ia raised her brows at the news. That hadn’t been a high probability. It might make things interesting, if the chaplain saw her in action. “You’re going down there?”
“Chaplains know no Branch boundaries. So I’m allowed to go into a Marine Corps haven,” Bennie quipped. She hung back as Ia tapped the button. “That, and I heard the chaplain from the Alvin York XVII will be there, overseeing a birthday party for a pair of Marines who share the same natal day. I haven’t seen Delilah in a while, and thought I should go.”
Stepping into the lift, Ia shrugged. “Then I guess I’ll see you there.”
Wondering what else could go odd with her day, Ia rode the lift up to the same level she had first visited. The front office was the same, even the same clerk. Ferrar didn’t look that much different, either, save only for the twin silver bars on his collar points. His skin was still a rich brown, his dark hair close-cropped to his head, and his gaze was still direct. This time, as he had for the last handful of months, he merely gestured for her to sit rather than exchange a formal set of salutes.
“Report,” he ordered.
“Spyder got ‘Happy’ Harkins to smile.” That lifted his brows. Ia smirked. “Twice, no less. I think he’s ready for a promotion to Lance Corporal soon. Serving with Gaskins’ GroPos settled him down from the recruit I knew, and I think he’s finally getting the hang of command. Double-E and Knorrsson should be promoted as well.”
“What about Guichi and Cooper?” Ferrar asked, making a note on his workstation. “I could use another full-mech sergeant. I’d like to pull from my own ranks before sending out a requisition for more personnel, though.”
Ia shook her head. “They’re both content with their rank and pay grades. Especially after that last evaluation raise. You might want to consider Private Adams in C Squad. He’s quick, he adapts well, and he can get the others in his squad to cooperate. They listen to him.”
“He’s not exactly an asteroid-buster,” Ferrar pointed out, glancing briefly at her.
“No, but it’s a skill set. It can be learned.” She waited while he made a few more notes.
“Anything else, for the record?”
“No, sir. A Squad is doing fine. So is the rest of the 2nd, as far as I can tell.”
Nodding, Ferrar signed off his workstation and shut it down, lowering the screens into the desk. Leaning back in his seat, he laced his fingers over his brown-uniformed stomach. “And off the record?”
Ia looked past him, skimming the timestreams. “I foresee you getting another ‘hunch’ and passing it along to Captain Sudramara. Shake up the patrol schedule, big time. And keep news of the change confined to this ship.”
“I’d wondered about that.” Sighing, Captain Ferrar rubbed at his forehead. “Changing the schedule without reporting it in will skim us very, very close to insubordination. But . . . it does feel like we have a leak somewhere in the system. If the Ackbar hadn’t suffered a tank leak and been forced to backtrack to the closest system for repair and refueling, they wouldn’t have caught that clutch of raiders forcing the fueling station to refuel their ships. That was a nasty firefight.”
“I know.” At the Captain’s sharp look, Ia shook her head. “It’s not what you think. I’m just agreeing. The Ackbar came out of that one with a bad limp.”
“Right. So . . . the patrol schedule. Any clues on how we should shake it up? Or is the future a big ball of misty possibilities?” Ferrar asked sardonically.
Mist wasn’t her problem, usually. Seeing too much was the usual headache, unlike most other precogs. Ia looked past him at the wall, skimming delicately through his and the captain of the ship’s timestreams. “. . . I just get the feeling we’ll be near Oberon’s Rock again in two days. Two and a half days, actually.”
Ferrar leveled a look at her. “We just came from Oberon’s Rock, Sergeant. That’s on the Triskelle’s patrol route, and they’ll be passing through in just under two days.”
“I know, sir.” She held his gaze steadily. “I just get the same feeling thinking about it, like what I got when I heard about the Ackbar.”
“That someone knows all our exact patrol routes, and is drafting in right behind us the moment our back is fully turned?” he asked. She didn’t answer, because it was a rhetorical question. Ferrar knew it, too, and slowly nodded. “For such a simple-seeming mining consortium, Oberon keeps attracting a lot of attention, doesn’t it?”
“That it does, sir.” Sensing the meeting was over, Ia flexed her hand, thoughts already on the coming confrontation.
“Right. I’ll bring up the Ackbar and the fact that we’ve already thwarted a couple of other piracy attempts to Sudramara, and aim for arriving in that system a few hours after the Triskelle leaves. Anything else, off the record?” he asked.
She shrugged. “Nothing really worth noting. Except for the nagging feeling we’re beginning to piss off whoever is so interested in a simple mining company.”
“I don’t have to be a psychic to know we’re pissing them off, Sergeant,” Ferrar stated. “Frankly, I don’t give a damn. They can’t do a thing to us. There is no criminal organization that will ever match the TUPSF Marines, let alone outnumber us. They’d be suicidal to try.”
She seized on that opening, smiling slightly. “On the record, sir . . . if they ever do try something, do I have your permission to ‘chastise’ them appropriately?”
Ferrar chuckled. “All by yourself? Not even you are that good of a soldier. This is the work of some very well-connected, very large crime syndicate—if you do ever have to go after them, then yes, you have my permission. Just make sure to bring the rest of the Company along for the ride. That’s on the record. Whoever these people are, I want them shut down. If you get any ‘ideas’ on how to do that . . . then by all means, follow through.”
“Sir, yes, sir.”
“You’re taking your Leave on the Platform, right?” Ferrar asked her. She nodded. He grinned. “Good. You’ve been trading too many Leave hours for voluntary guard duty—I know you’re a long way from your homeworld and you want to save up enough time to be able to travel there and back, but you also need to relax once in a while. So. Buy me a drink at Frostie’s?”
“Yeah, right. W
hen are you going to buy me a drink?” she shot back, rising from her seat.
“When you outrank me, Sergeant.”
“If I ever do, I’ll hold you to that.” Nodding politely, she headed for the door. “I’ll see you down there as soon as I change, sir.”
“The pilgrim, on his knees on the road, then clasped his hands together,” Chaplain Delilah Smithson recited. The others lounging around the table listened avidly to the short little tale. “And to his surprise . . . so did the bear! Greatly heartened by this, the pilgrim then began to pray. ‘Oh, Heavenly Father, pleeeeease let this be a Christian bear! I don’t want to be eaten by those evil nasty devil bears!’ ”
“. . . And?” Lieutenant Nyugen asked, polishing off the dregs of his beer.
“And the bear, to the great shock of the pilgrim, began to pray, too!” Delilah told the mix of noncoms and officers from three different ships crowding one of the longer tables in the brick-walled pub. “Kneeling there on the side of the road across from the pilgrim, paws clasped together, the bear prayed, ‘Oh, Heavenly Father! For this meal, which we are about to receive . . . we give thanks.’ ”
Laughter roared across the table from her listeners, Ia included. She hadn’t heard that one before.
Delilah smirked and saluted the others with her scotch on the rocks. “I told you it was an oldie, but a goodie! That one predates the Industrial Revolution.”
“That’s worth buying you another round,” one of the sergeants from Delilah’s ship quipped.
“I’ll get it,” Ia offered, rising from her seat.
Ferrar looked up at her, a pretzel halfway to his lips. “You’ll buy her a drink, but you won’t buy one for me?”
“She tells a better joke than you, Captain.” Grinning as the others laughed and Ferrar mock-scowled, Ia headed for the bar. Halfway there, she heard the catcalls from one of the tables closer to the entrance.
“Lookit the civvies! Think they’re lost?” “They gotta be, to wind up in here.” “A business suit, in a dive like this?” “This is Ma-reen country! Not some fancy wine cellar!”
Swerving their way, Ia swept the enlisted snickering into their drinks with a quelling look. “This is an open, public bar. It is not exclusively Marine country. And you will not insult Frostie by driving away more potential customers. Is that clear, gentlebeings?”
Most of the Marines at the table knew who she was, by now. There was only one woman with chin-length white hair who ever showed up in bloodred clothes at Frostie’s Tavern. Ia had the white hair since birth, and was clad in a bloodred vest and matching silk pants. She had also earned their respect through her Bloody Mary reputation by now. The men and women at the table stopped their catcalling, burying any further comments in their drinks.
The gentleman who had been hazed strolled over to her. Lifting her left hand in his, he smiled, brown eyes gleaning with humor. Bowing over her fingers, he pressed a kiss to her knuckles. “My heroine. I thank you for such a gallant rescue. May I buy you a drink, lovely lady in red?”
“Whoa! Somebody’s gonna try t’ melt the Snow Princess?” Coughing on his drink, a private from Ferrar’s 3rd Platoon rasped out, “I’d pay to see if he succeeds!”
“Shut up, Han,” she retorted. “Don’t make me bust you back down to recruit.”
“Oh, I think I can handle this, my lady,” the businessman stated, smiling pleasantly, if darkly. With his long, dark hair pulled back into a braid and a ring in one ear, the smile made him look more like a corporate raider than a mere corporate man.
“With respect, I can handle this,” Ia told him, holding up her other hand. “I have a reputation in here. You don’t.”
“Oy!” Detaching himself from another table, Corporal Spyder swaggered her way, beer in hand. “Ia, izzis meioa botherin’ you?”
“Not really, no.” Ia glanced briefly at another man entering the bar. Clad in plain civilian clothes, his light brown hair a rumpled mess and exuding an odd, almost entirely un-minty odor, he brushed past Spyder brusquely, nearly making the corporal spill his drink. Mindful that time was running out, she looked back at the man still holding her hand and gestured with her free one at the bar. “Why don’t you tell me your name, meioa, and we’ll see if it leads to that drink?”
This time, it was Spyder’s turn to choke on his beer. He followed at a slight distance, coughing and grinning. Ia had cultivated a friends-only attitude all this time. She knew her old Basic Training teammate was amused by the thought of her actually wanting to date anyone.
“Well, my name is Darroll Rekk-Noth, and I am an independent businessman. I only have a couple of ships in my admittedly small fleet, but I do a fair amount of interstellar trade. I specialize in rarities, antiquities, and . . .”
Ia held up her hand again, forestalling him.
“Not right now, Drek,” she murmured, her gaze on the other man who had entered. That man was muttering in dark tones at the chief waitress, Rostie. She shook her head and hurried to the next table, but the fellow followed.
“. . . I said I don’t want you working here! Get back home, now!” the newcomer ordered the waitress.
“And I said I’ll work anyway. I like working here.” Lifting her chin, Rostie indicated the door. “My shift’s up in six and a half hours. Go find something to do until then.”
“. . . So you recognized me?” the man at Ia’s side murmured into her ear. He touched her shoulder at the same time, making the gesture look like a caress. “I wanted to meet the meioa responsible for so much of my business success.”
“Of course I did. I knew you’d be here,” she murmured back, eyes on the other tableau. She lifted her chin at the man following Rostie, still bothering her. “The same with him.”
“So you know I’m here to . . . renegotiate your terms?” her would-be suitor asked.
The man pestering Rostie grabbed her upper arm, jerking her around. “You are not going to parade yourself in here like a filthy little bar slut!”
Ia wasn’t the only one who moved forward at that, but she was prepared for it; the other Marines were still scraping their chairs back and shoving to their feet when she reached the blue-haired waitress’ side. Rostie tried to shrug free. Her spurious boyfriend squeezed harder, making her wince.
“I said, go home!”
“And I say, get your hand off her,” Ia warned him coldly as more of her fellow soldiers stood. “You’re in a bar full of big damn heroes, meioa. Think carefully before you do anything else, today.”
“You think I’m afraid of you?” he snorted, looking her up and down. In her sleeveless vest, the curves of her arm muscles were quite visible. His eyes were bloodshot, his face reddened. “You’re nothin’ but a slab of unnatural, unfeminine beef!”
“You heard the Sergeant,” one of the Marines behind him ordered. “Get your hands off Rostie, and walk away.”
Another one leaned in close, sniffing the man. “Shakk . . . I know that smell. You’re hyped up on poppers! My cousin tried to get me to take that shova!”
“Poppers is a one-way ticket to a prison-patch, for a Human,” a third Marine stated darkly, cracking her knuckles. “Particularly on a military base.”
Purpling with rage, the man released Rostie. His hand darted into a pocket and whipped out again. Ia got there first, stopping his punch with her palm. Ice-cold pain screamed up her nerves from her hand to her brain, followed by a searing hot ache. Even knowing it was coming, despite being willing, it took her a moment to get past the shock of the impact. Blinking, Ia sucked in a slow, unsteady breath.
Her attacker blinked as well. He looked down at their hands, joined at rib-height. Looked back up at her face. Blanched as she met his gaze without flinching.
Teeth clenched against the pain, gut tight against the urge to grunt, Ia slowly curled her fingers down around his. “Let. Go. I will not ask you twice.”
Brown eyes met amber. Short as they were, Ia dug in her nails. The move put pressure on the wound, causing more pain
and more blood to trickle free, but the sting of her warning did the trick. Feeling his fingers relax and release the blade, she lifted her arm a little, displaying to some of the others what had just happened.
The blade, with the curved tip of a bone-knife culled from some kitchen, stuck out of the back of her hand. The hilt had sunk all the way to her palm. Dark crimson dripped down her forearm. The others in the pub hissed and hastily grabbed him. He struggled, trying to throw them off. Ia fisted her fingers around the hilt, squeezing out another trickle, and brought the bloodied blade up in front of his face.
“Either you go with these meioas, nice and quiet . . . or I will backhand you. Yes. With this hand. It’s your choice, meioa-o. Choose wisely.”
“Let’s not give him one,” growled one of the men holding the idiot. “C’mon, let’s haul this shova-sack out of here and hold ’im for the Platform Peacekeepers.”
Several willing hands hauled him backwards and lifted him up overhead with just a few muttered grunts for coordination. Wending their way through the scattered tables and chairs, they carried the idiot outside to await pickup. Others clustered around Ia, eyeing her hand. A couple grabbed napkins and offered them. She accepted, mostly to wipe up the blood dripping down to her elbow, but shook her head at offers to remove the blade.
“. . . I’ll let the Platform docs do that. I’d rather not bleed freely from here to the hospital, thank you—and I can make it all the way to them just fine. I’m not about to pass out, trust me.” Nodding at her fellow soldiers, she made her way toward the front door. The businessman, Darroll Rekk-Noth, followed her. So did her commanding officer.
As soon as they were outside the tavern, Ferrar lifted his chin at the idiot still being held firmly overhead by the Marines who had carried him out. They had his arms twisted behind his back and crossed his legs, limiting how much the idiot could struggle. “There’ll be a trial, of course. Technically, he damaged government property when he struck you. With a lethal weapon, no less. Five to ten years on a penal farm, at the very least.”
“I don’t care what happens to him. I just want him off this station. If the military wishes him sentenced to a penal farmpatch far, far away, that’s fine by me,” she quipped as she kept walking. Her attention was more on bracing her hand with her other palm so that the knife wouldn’t jostle and injure her any worse. It hurt, but in a different way from a dislocated shoulder, a broken ankle, or even having her shoulder charred halfway through her collarbone. More bearable, in some ways. But it hurt. At least she had managed to twist her palm just enough so that the knife blade had shoved between the bones, limiting the overall damage.