by Bill Roberts
I grab her jacket and bring it over to where she is sitting. We have talked of this many times. I have often considered telling her to go. I would love to get her away from the terrible dangers we endure. But, I know she will never go. Part of the reason is that she will never leave me. However, the biggest reason is that she loves being a Marine. She does not want to give it up. I understand that part all too well. Besides, selfishly I want her close to me. Matching her light-hearted tone I say: “What can he possibly have against me? I am dashing, good-looking, and have designs against your virtue. Uh … wait. Never mind, I would hate me too if I were him.”
Svetlana laughs merrily while she puts on her jacket and belts it. She does not wear a tie of course, just a mandarin collared slightly open shirt. She responds to my banter: “Designs against my virtue?” She steps into me and kisses me hotly. “It was I who seduced you if you remember.”
Of course I do. I remember well the night many years ago when my feelings for her caused me to finally give in. It had not been an easy decision. I had to decide that I had played by the rules long enough. I had to decide that some things were far more important than the regulations that all Marines live by. There have been times when I have questioned the wisdom of that decision. But, I have never questioned the rightness of it, because on that night I had to make another, even more important decision. I had to decide that I would open my heart again. I was a good Marine then. I was a decorated and respected commander of men and women. But, I was a broken man emotionally. I had lost so much when the Synti came. By allowing her into my heart, even if not wholly, I had clearly made the right decision. Svetlana has always been a great woman. But our romance has given her something that had been missing from her life, someone to share love with. She gained much, but I gained far more than she did. That night Svetlana started me along the long path of healing the terrible hurt that filled my heart. All these years later, I know I am a much better man for it. If we ever get caught, if we are ever drummed out in disgrace. I will hold my head high and regret nothing.
I smile at Svetlana and say: “Let’s go. The evening awaits.”
I open the door to our room, bow and gesture her through the door. The hotel is quite nice. The rich carpet muffles our boots as we move down the hallway to the elevator. I press the button and kiss Svetlana on the top of her head. She smiles and pulls me close while we wait. The door opens with a ding and we step inside. The glass elevator looks out over downtown San Diego as we descend. The city looks much as I remember it. Thirty years is a long time, but San Diego shrugs off the time as if it never happened. The doors open and we walk in comfortable silence through the hotel lobby to the street outside. Once outside I hold my arm out for her and she links hers with mine. We head down the street and after a couple of blocks we enter the nearby Gas Lamp district. I ask: “What do you feel like?”
“Nothing in particular. What would you prefer?” She replies pleasantly.
I think for a moment then say: “I feel like something old fashioned. Something with a lot of wood and oil paintings on the wall.”
Svetlana smiles. “That sounds wonderful.”
We continue down the street passing couples and bands of partygoers. We even see a large group that looks like a bachelorette party. The cool evening does little to dampen everyone’s spirits. We get a few looks. They are mostly curious, uniforms are as rare here as they are at Balboa Park. I catch some of the men looking at Svetlana with a little too much interest. I do not bristle. She is tremendously beautiful, and certainly worth looking at. So I merely gaze upon the admirers with supreme confidence. They all read the situation correctly and continue on their way. Svetlana notices the little byplay. She laughs quietly: “Men.”
After a couple of blocks a promising sign catches my eye. It is done in archaic neon and shows a four leaf clover in green with O’Malley’s in red above it. I steer us towards it. When I see the door is made of solid wood and hear that the music is old style Irish and understated I know we have found the perfect place.
We enter and look around. The whole left wall is a massive bar. The center is full of tall tables with stools for chairs. The right wall has a row of wooden booths running down it. The place is crowded, but not uncomfortably so. I see an open booth about half-way down and head towards it. As I do so I ask: “A booth okay?” Svetlana just nods her head in response. I let her take the side of the booth facing the door. I know she likes to watch people come and go. I also know that having her back to a door can make her feel uncomfortable.
I sit across from her, look around, and say: “This place is perfect.”
“It is very you,” Svetlana replies.
A waitress bustles over, smiles prettily, and says: “Welcome to O’Mally’s. Can I get you something to drink?”
I gesture for Svetlana to order first. She says: “A vodka,” despite the decades of mostly speaking English she pronounces it wodka, “martini with lemon please.” Of course she orders a vodka martini. I am just glad I have convinced her to stop ordering straight shots of the stuff over the years.
I order a gin martini, dirty. As the waitress heads off to get our drinks I grin over at Svetlana. It is an old game, but I decide to play it anyway. “Vodka huh?”
She gives me a pointed look and her accent thickens as she says: “I cannot help it if you foolish Americans insist on drinking something else.” In the post invasion government the old nations have become more like states. All of humanity is now united in an inter-stellar republic. Old national rivalries have been muted over the decades into a thing expressed in sports competitions, jokes involving people who walk into bars, and, of course, the merits of different foods and drinks.
The grin remains on my face as I reply: “Oh we drink vodka too, but we’re clever enough to have figured out that there is a lot of other great stuff to drink.”
Her pointed look does not falter in the slightest. “There is only one great thing to drink, and that is vodka. The rest is just for drinking when you have no choice.”
I happily let her win the game this time. Hell, I am happy enough to let her win most things. It usually turns out great for me. I ask: “What was your favorite part of the trip?” We had spent the two weeks basking in San Diego’s sun and enjoying its many parks and attractions. Tomorrow we would board a high-speed transport for the UHMC base in South Africa. A few days from now we would board ship and head for the Elowynn border to hunt pirates.
Svetlana ponders the question for a bit then says: “I enjoyed the surfing lessons.” I scowl playfully. She is much better at surfing than I am. “I also liked sailing around Coronado Island.” I had grown up sailing on Lake St. Claire in my parents’ twenty-footer. The day we spent sailing had been a pleasant day of me teaching her the ancient nautical arts I knew and loved. “But, I think my favorite part was going through all the museums at Balboa Park.” A woman after my own heart. I love museums. Small ones, big ones, ones that showcased art, or ones that displayed humanity’s achievements, they all keep our history alive.
The waitress returns with our drinks. As she plops them down she says: “These are on the house. The owner says no Marines will pay for drinks in her bar.”
This has not happened to me in a very long time. I may be uncomfortable accepting thanks, but free drinks suit me just fine. I imagine the owner had been a Marine at some point in the past. I say: “Thank her for us. Also if the owner would like to join us later I would like to talk to her.” This may be the last night of our leave, but running into an old Marine is something that transcends our plans. You always spared them a few minutes.
The waitress nods as she hands us menus. “I will do that,” she says and bustles off.
I hold my glass up to Svetlana and she knocks her glass against mine. We both take a healthy sip. She then says: “If the owner was in Fallujah promise me you will not spend all night trading stories.”
I t
ip my glass to Svetlana and respond: “Hey that only happened once. I just want to thank her for her hospitality.” In the meantime there are more important things to discuss. “Which museum did you like the best?”
“I loved the San Diego Museum of Art. Goya’s El Marques de Sofraga is very beautifully done.” I can see Svetlana picture the painting in her head as she says this. It is not my favorite work there, but I can appreciate her taste.
“Personally I enjoyed the collection of Rubens the most,” I reply.
“You just like them because they are so much older,” she responds playfully.
I grin back. “I am old. I’m allowed to like old things.”
The waitress returns to take our order. I order a corned beef and cabbage sandwich with fries. Svetlana orders a cheeseburger with fries. We have eaten at a lot of more upscale restaurants here. I think we are both looking forward to simpler fare.
As the waitress heads off I see a woman making her way over to our booth. She has a wholesome look about her. She is not particularly beautiful, but in this age of nanites everyone looks so young and vibrant that almost all humans look good. I am a big fan of this. While I understand that beauty is important and desirable, it should not define a person. We are so much more than the way we look. The nanites have given us an opportunity to allow our actions to more clearly define us. I have noticed a subtle social change along these lines over the last three decades. I welcome it.
When the woman arrives she says: “Welcome to my pub. My father was a Marine a long time ago.” She speaks in a Southern California accent.
“Thanks for the drinks. That’s very kind of you,” I respond.
“No thanks are necessary. My father taught me that Marines always take care of each other. I just wanted to thank you for your service.”
Svetlana asks: “What does your father do now?”
The owner smiles: “He is on his second retirement. The last time I talked to him he was hiking in Nepal.” She laughs. “I expect the next time he talks to me he will be talking about lunch with the Dalai Lama.”
I say: “You have a very nice pub.” An understatement really. Although it is Saturday night in the Gas Lamp this place is particularly busy.
“Thank you very much.” The owner looks around contentedly. “I’ve worked very hard on this place. It’s nice for it to be appreciated.” She looks back at us. “What do you think of the Tangul fleet passing through Elowynn space?”
Of course she asks. I fight off a sigh. Svetlana answers first: “It clearly was not an accident. However, there is no way to know for sure what it means.”
I pile on: “Time will tell. For now, no use worrying about it.”
The owner leans in closer: “You want to know why it’s so busy tonight? We are all worried about it. We all know it’s only a matter of time.”
I take a quick look around. Her last sentence makes too much sense. Svetlana and I spend far too much time deployed aboard the Stern or on Camp Nichols to feel completely fluent in a civilian environment. But with the owner’s comments I realize that there had definitely been a background of angst to the people of San Diego we had interacted with over the last couple of weeks.
Svetlana responds: “Worry profits no one. And if war does come,” she smiles a shark-like smile, “they will have to deal with us.” I feel pride swell up within me. God she is magnificent.
The owner looks comforted by Svetlana’s response. She stands up straight and says: “I won’t take up any more of your time. You are my guests this evening. Please enjoy yourselves.” With that she walks away.
I meet Svetlana’s eyes and hold them. Four weeks ago, a large Tangul fleet had “accidentally” passed through Elowynn space. This could be done with proper diplomatic coordination, but, of course, the Tangul had done no such coordinating. Officially the Southern Alliance had made protests to which the Tangul made sufficient apologies. Unofficially, we know it was just a test of our resolve. Through my unique contacts I have learned that the Queen of the Ssahar and the Elder of the Elowynn had seriously considered responding in kind. This would very likely have led to war. The President of the United Humanity Republic had talked them out of it, arguing that every month we delay the coming war the balance of military power shifts more in our favor.
I could not share this with any of my friends, not even Svetlana. But our intelligence briefings had presented the results of this conversation if not the conversation itself and she is no fool. She says quietly: “It will be soon now.” She looks serious for a moment and then brightens noticeably. She continues: “But soon is not tonight. So let us enjoy this evening.”
I smile back and reply: “Brilliant idea.”
The rest of our time in O’Malley’s passes delightfully. The sandwich, while simple, is delicious. We both happily lose count of how many martinis we drink. We talk about our leave together and cement the highlights in our memory. We challenge some of the patrons to a friendly and drunkenly awful game of darts. In the process we build another fond memory to carry us through the long months ahead.
After a couple of hours we depart the pub and begin our stroll back to our hotel. With a flight tomorrow we have to get back to the hotel relatively early. As we walk back I notice that the streets are still a bit crowded as revelers bar hop through the Gas Lamp. We have just brushed past a couple of men wearing San Diego University shirts when suddenly Svetlana explodes into action and I instinctively assume a hand to hand stance. By the time I can appraise the situation one of the men is face down on the ground with his left hand firmly grasped by both of hers. She is holding his arm straight up and has bent his hand forward painfully while holding it tight to her abdomen. She has her right boot planted firmly in the center of his back and is disparaging his parents and intelligence in rather colorful Russian.
The other man turns around and his eyes go round with shock. I ask Svetlana calmly: “What did he do?”
“This … This imbecile grabbed my ass,” Svetlana replies angrily her accent particularly thick. The other man’s expression transitions from shock to stricken embarrassment.
In my slightly inebriated state I have more than a little trouble resisting the urge to kick the man on the ground. However, Svetlana has handled the situation to my satisfaction so I settle for saying to his prone form: “I do believe you owe her an apology.”
His voice muffled by the concrete I hear him respond: “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. Jesus, that hurts.”
I notice a small crowd has formed around us. Svetlana tosses his arm away contemptuously and steps back. We both survey him coldly as he slowly stands up. She states icily: “Be glad I did not break your arm.”
As both men look at us a couple of local police officers push their way through the crowd. They quickly size up the situation, two senior, heavily decorated Marines with cold expressions and a couple of college kids looking distinctly uncomfortable. I see the picture snap into place in their faces. One of the cops, a sergeant by his stripes, faces Svetlana and me and asks: “Is there a problem here?” The other cop glowers at the college kids.
Svetlana turns on the charm and says sweetly: “No problem at all officer. I believe these two children were just a little confused.”
The cop’s eyes slide over to the two men and he asks: “Is that so?” He draws out the “o” of the “so” as he says it. Both of the men begin agreeing with Svetlana vehemently. I decide it is time to interject. I look at the two police officers and say pleasantly: “If you gentlemen don’t mind we would just as soon be on our way.”
The cops exchange a quick meaningful look. The one that has done all the talking responds: “Just as long as you don’t head in the same direction as these two,” he waves his hand contemptuously at the two nervous looking men, “I don’t have a problem with that.”
“No problem,” I reply. I gently work Svetlana’s arm in to mine and we continue
towards our hotel. The crowd parts before us and I notice more than a few smiles and grins on their faces. As we do so I hear the cops strongly advising the two college kids to call it a night and return to wherever they call home. I am not remotely surprised at how quickly and decisively Svetlana had responded to the kid’s impudence. I know she has a will of iron and is utterly fearless. Furthermore, like me, she also participates in Judo as a hobby. Having sparred with her many times I know she is lightning fast and really, really good at hand to hand combat. I am just glad she did not break the kid’s arm. Difficult to explain that.
I look over at her face. I notice she is still more than a little angry. I cannot let that continue. I try for levity first. “If you want we can go back so you can beat him up properly. I’m pretty sure I could keep the cops distracted while you did it.”
She looks up at me angrily. “Are you making fun of me?” Wow, she is really angry.
Okay. Levity is not going to work. I respond seriously: “No my love I am not. I am just trying to say I think you hammered the kid pretty good. I don’t think he’s going to try anything like that again anytime soon. I also think you satisfied the demands of honor nicely.” I stop and grab her upper arms gently while facing her squarely as I say this.
The anger on her face does not go away. I notice a bit of hurt seep in as she says: “I do not deserve to be treated like that.”
“No you do not.” I respond gently. “You are a great woman Svetlana Zhukov. No idiotic punk in the world can ever take that away from you.”
She hugs me fiercely. “Thank you.” She says it thickly.
I hug her back and give her time to let the anger and hurt seep away. I ignore the passage of time. It might have been a minute, it might have been ten, but after enough time had passed she relaxes her hold on me. Without a word I grab her hand and start heading down the street. Marines are not supposed to hold hands in public. I could care less. As we walk I remind myself again. Most rules are fucking stupid anyway.