by John Ringo
Miriam looked frozen for a moment, then shrugged.
"The Blade, Mr. President."
"Is that your final answer?" the President said. "I have been informed of your almost habitual lack of self-confidence. While I'll admit that could be a problem in an ambassador, I nonetheless feel that there is no person more suitable to the position of ambassador to the Hexosehr. Your technical competence is what I'm looking at there, far more than your linguistic ability. And the short communiqué you returned with from the Hexosehr mentions you by name as a suitable interlocutor."
"I appreciate that, Mr. President," Miriam said. "Really I do. But I think I'm of more use on the Blade. We're going to encounter more species, we're going to encounter more linguistic problems and we're going to encounter more . . . technical problems. I think I can be of more use there than negotiating details with the Hexosehr. Nice as they are, I think it would drive me insane. More insane."
"Very well," the President said, waving his magic finger. "You are permanently, at least as long as I'm in office, the linguist for the Vorpal Blade, whatever number it ends up as. If you change your mind, you can of course unvolunteer at any time and options remain open. Ambassador, linguist right here in the White House—heck I could use a technical advisor as easy on the eyes as you are. Whatever you ask."
"Thank you, Mr. President," Miriam said, dimpling.
"There's just one problem with Miss Moon continuing on the Blade Two," the CO suddenly said, frowning seriously.
"What's that?" the President asked, blinking.
"It's a brand new ship," Spectre replied. "If it has to take another long cruise, there aren't any pipes to paint! God help whoever takes over as CO!"
"Brooke, this is Amanda Bergstresser."
"Yes, ma'am," Brooke said. It had been nearly four months since that one single exchange of messages. Eric's mom was in contact with other families from his unit and all of them were worried. The ship Eric was on wasn't supposed to be able to be gone this long. The Marines weren't saying anything, just that the unit was "overdue."
Nobody was giving up hope, least of all Brooke. Prom was coming, but she'd turned away every offer of a date. She had her dress, she was ready to go. But only if she was on Eric's arm. But a call out-of-the-blue like this from Mrs. Bergstresser could mean only one of two things . . .
"I've received two messages, one for us and one for you. Yours is two words. Can I just read it to you?"
"Yes, ma'am," Brooke said, taking a deep breath.
"From Staff Sergeant Eric Bergstresser to Brooke Pierson. Marry Me. End message."
"Oh yes," Brooke said, crying. "Oh, tell him yes!"
"Tell him yourself; he's in Washington, DC. They're back, he's fine and he wants to see you as soon as he can get home. You've got his cell phone number. Use it. And tell him to call his momma."
"The problem with this . . . anomaly is that with the subject's normal irregular data it's hard to pin down. Definite increases in activity in the parietal lobe. But there have been so many described shifts in the record it could just be a new . . . change?"
The two neurologists looked at the results of Earth's most advanced medical scanning and then, almost in turn, shrugged.
"I can't say that there's a notable change," the older said, frowning. "And that is the keystone phrase."
"If we make any suggestion of a change, the subject is in for some very invasive procedures," the younger said.
"Be interesting to pull that brain apart."
"I'll put that down as a 'no notable changes,' then," the younger said.
"Spoilsport."
THE END
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