12
October 22nd.
Lisa Ava:
Dee flashes me as soon as he comes through security.
I check the time and suddenly I’m glad it’s almost 21:00—most everybody else is long gone for the day (except for a number of analysts, but they’re all glued to their links and pretty much oblivious to what goes on around them). Still, for discretion, I meet him out in Reception.
Our section isn’t nearly big enough to rate more than one shift of live exec-support staff, so it’s private except for the sentry gear, which, as far as I know, just records audio and visual. It hopefully can’t read the subtly of live human interaction.
He’s dressed in some kind of commando-chic: heavy black woolly-pully style sweater that supports his Major’s clusters (and probably conceals a Class III vest), fresh black BDU pants, shined tanker boots. He’s got the heavy gray coat and big hat he’s apparently so fond of in his left arm.
He looks good. Relaxed, considering what’s on for tomorrow.
“Major Ram…”
He picks up on my tone and the salute and takes note of the security hardware watching us. Returns the salute.
“Lieutenant Ava.”
He smiles. Looks deep into my eyes like he does, like he can reach right in and pull out my heart.
“Working late?” Which he knows—Dee let me know he’d checked to see if I was still here before he drove over from Langley. (Dee playing matchmaker? Or is it just a privilege of my level of access?)
“Big day tomorrow,” I remind him needlessly.
“Just a repeat performance,” he minimizes. “I did this show before, remember?”
“Yes sir. I was there.” Smile. Flash my eyes at him. “But this time you get the benefit of the whole Assembly, and the live coverage thing. And the President.”
“Which somewhat increases the odds that someone will actually stay awake during my speech this time.”
“I’m sure you’ll be quite enthralling, sir,” I play.
“Tough audience.” He paces, circling me, trying to avoid getting too obviously close. “But then I suppose they need to be thoroughly bullshit-proof to do their jobs.”
“Yes sir.”
He makes a show of looking at his watch. “Do you need to get out of here for a while, Lieutenant?”
“I suppose I should, sir. After few hours on Net-scan, your brain starts to slide into this sort of multi-process flash mode: all these images, nothing linear. After a full shift, I have trouble putting a coherent sentence together.”
“And today?”
“Thirteen hours on, given what’s spinning since someone hacked our show and put it on the public webs. My brain feels like a server. Having trouble staying in the room.”
“Then we should get you out of here, at least to feed you. Something relatively nice. Do you like sushi, Lieutenant?”
“I love sushi, sir.”
We take my pool car downtown. He seems content to let me drive, even though he’s got to be more familiar with the DC area. A show of confidence? Equality? (Or is he just expecting he’ll need to dash off to some global emergency and I’ll need the ride home?)
The restaurant he recommends winds up being three blocks away from the closest parking we could find, but I’m grateful for the walk and the air despite the weather, because it gives us time to talk away from potentially curious ears (assuming we’re not being shadowed). I’m hoping we might actually have a conversation like two real people, not just silent flirting and subtle innuendo. But so far getting him to talk beyond idle chat has been like a careful interrogation. At least his willingness to go out in public with me tells me he doesn’t really care who might see us together. He pays attention to the distance between us, though: he walks close, but not too close.
“So, you think I should wear this tomorrow?”
It’s a chilly night, a fine mist of icy rain blowing on the wind, so he almost passes for a normal person wearing that coat and hat (apparently it isn’t just for psy-war missions). And it covers up the military look pretty well, more than I do in my pressed urban ACUs and issue raincoat.
“I’m surprised they let you through Pentagon security looking like that,” I tease him.
“A general bought this for me,” he jabs back, doing a spin like he’s modeling the outfit. His sense of humor, as always, tells me there’s probably something painful buried deep under the playful but regular self-effacement. I can’t say I know him well enough yet to pry, so I just play until he’s ready, pick up what bits I can, milk carefully...
“I thought they wanted you in full gear, Major,” I remind him.
“Yeah,” he considers somewhat sourly. “There’s a precedent for you: battle armor on the Assembly floor—very diplomatic. Shape of things to come?”
“The Knights of the Round Table wore their armor to diplomatic meetings,” I imagine out loud. “At least they did in the movies.”
“I could bring a sword.” Odd thing to say. Almost sounds like he isn’t joking.
Awkward silence. And we’re running out of outdoor privacy.
“Could be worse,” I change directions, trying to keep it light, “Colonel Richards went to get himself tailored for a fresh set of blacks for it—very crisp and shiny. He even booked a facial.”
“Wouldn’t think he was the sort,” he manages a half-assed smile.
“Oh, he most definitely isn’t. Secretary Miller insisted. Even gave him the referral. He looked like he was facing a prostate exam when he left.”
“He usually looks like that,” he plays back. “At least when he has to talk to me, anyway.” He’s starting to get distant again by the end.
I let that sit for a few paces—again, that sense of something dark lying just below the surface, that takes him from playful to pessimistically grim in nothing flat—tells me to be careful with the cheap shots.
“You and Colonel Richards, you two have some history, don’t you?” I go serious, digging probably a little more than I should try to.
“Some,” he allows, after spending a few seconds formulating another diplomatic (in other words: carefully vague) answer. “We sort of got off on the wrong foot, a few years back. I suppose I owe him, though: he extracted me from something that was a little bit over my head.”
“I have a hard time imagining how you could be in something over your head, Major,” I flirt badly.
“You kicked my ass once, as I recall,” he reminds me, trying to keep it casual, but I can feel the heat radiating off of him, off of me, even in the chill breeze...
“I thought that was the point of the exercise, Major.”
“It was,” he gives me, warming up as we get to the entrance. “But out of all the boots I played, you were the only one to play me.”
Okay, it’s a start.
Too bad: we’re here.
It does help:
Quiet restaurant. Not too busy. Hot sake on a cold night. Soup. Food coming in slow, small, decorative samples—just sit and savor.
Let the Net out of my brain for a few hours.
Unfortunately, the small talk gets back to business too easily.
“So: You don’t regret not going the Tactical route?” he asks me, probably just watching my neurons defrag, but it’s a tender subject.
“I don’t know,” I have a hard time finding a good answer to that. I feel like I’ve let him down, especially after the first time I really impressed him. (And I’ve been wondering how long he’d wait to bring up my choice of posting.) “I obviously wasn’t thinking about going the combat route when I signed up—it wasn’t even an option, not that I’d ruled it out. But I guess something showed during my Sim Immersions: my sessions started taking a turn, focusing on communications, info-war, politics and propaganda. It wasn’t what I expected, but I didn’t know it was odd until I came out and Lieutenant Becker told me that Datascan had taken some unusual initiative with me. Then Director Henderson sold me on their plans for a dedicated info-war division, someplace I
could fight what he called a ‘bigger war’, get on the officer fast-track…”
“Net-Com,” he names it.
“Fighting your ‘Ratings War’,” I quote his speech, then realize I probably sound like I’m just kissing up.
“Keeping us ahead of the Net—and they used to think just managing the Press was hard…” he gives me some sideways praise.
“You’re not disappointed I didn’t stay behind a gun?” I ask outright.
“You can always put on the suit if you change your mind—I’ll vouch for you myself. Actually, I don’t need to: your scores speak for you. You could have your own company. But then, what you’ll be running is a lot bigger.”
He keeps eating like this is no big issue between us. He’s letting me off easy, but now I think I hear something unexpected in his voice: Relief, maybe. Like he’s glad I’ll be away from the shooting. Maybe he thinks he needs to protect me, despite what he says about my abilities.
“Yours may wind up being the uglier front,” he continues, actually not sounding like he’s being condescending. “Sometimes, anyway. I’m surprised this time is turning around so quickly.”
“Remains to be seen,” I tell him straight. “So far it’s just big spin, trying to turn around the initial freak-out, all the paranoia and righteous outrage. We have to see how it digests. The uglier front, as you put it.”
“I guess it depends on how we do tomorrow,” he says, now sounding distracted. His eyes go far away, like the weight of what he’s caught in the middle of has got him torn between dread and wonder. But then he’s facing the entire world tomorrow, in an attempt to reassure that we’re not up to something sinister, that we may indeed be able to make the world a better, safer, freer place.
“I wonder if the President likes sushi?” I try. He smiles.
“What about you?” I push it again as he walks me back to my car. “Have you been working CT long?”
He gets distant again—weight of the world all over him—then smiles gently, innocently.
“Not long.”
I think I’m starting to get the rhythm of this game: pry and back off, pry and back off—ease myself through all the layers of personal armor he’s built up, watch out for the land mines.
“Classified?” I figure, letting up for a beat. He shrugs. Something else he doesn’t want to tell me. (Or can’t, despite my clearance.)
Slow process. And we’re getting close to the garage where we’re parked, so I just take a breath, jump in and push it. “Are you ever going to tell me about yourself?”
He stops and looks at me. Doesn’t look at me. Like he can’t look me in the eye. So he goes far away.
“That would be classified,” he tries pretty lamely.
“My car is over here,” I point out needlessly as we walk into the relative shelter of the parking garage. I remote-flash the car to get it warmed up.
“You okay to drive?” he wants to know (and it sounds like honest concern, but he knows my car has auto-drive).
“Not really. You?”
“I’m fine,” he tells me—and he looks it. “You want me to drive you home?”
He says it without specific intention, but I think that’s about the best invitation I’m going to get.
I take a step close to him—crossing that barrier he’s been so careful to keep. He doesn’t move away. But he doesn’t move in, either. I can see him bite the inside of his lip, tense up. His eyes get far away again.
“Listen,” I tell him. “I’m sorry…”
“It isn’t you,” he gives me, looking me in the eye. He takes my hands in his—they’re warm, very warm—and it feels like we could melt together right here. Then his eyes go away again. “It’s… Nothing. Bad history.”
“Classified?” I prod him.
“Not really,” he lets me in just a bit. “Just nothing much to it: I was in love once. A few years ago. But she wanted something else. Something more.”
“She was an idiot,” I blurt out. Immediately regret it. Try to get that warmth back in his hands, which have sort of gone dead in mine. “I do know the feeling,” I try.
Wrong thing to say. He pulls away. Turns away. Stares at the concrete deck. No: he’s looking down at what he’s wearing—the black uniform and armor under his gray coat—like he’s not sure he wants to be in it.
Then: “I don’t want to deny—there is something between us, isn’t there?” His voice is almost shaking. “I mean, I do feel something for you. Something maybe more than I should.”
“You’re a major, I’m a lieutenant. I get it.” But I don’t want to. “That has nothing to do with why I’m here with you now.”
“You don’t work for me,” he tries to justify. “You work for Richards.”
“So do you.”
“Just don’t remind him of that,” he jokes, lightening, getting his defenses back up. But then he turns back to face me and sort of… freezes. Locks up. Looks like he’s fighting to stay in his skin. Looks at me, into my eyes. Like he’s in pain.
“You’re holding back,” I scold him gently. “I…”
I don’t get to finish. Before I know what’s happening, he’s kissing me. He’s got my head my face in his hands and he’s devouring me hungrily, desperately. I melt. I’m breathing his breath, seamlessly, in and out, like we’re one being. His taste and smell and heat blend perfectly into mine, his body melts up against me, and the whole world is gone and it’s like we’ve been doing this all our lives and
He lets me go. Just a bit. Just enough to ask
“Better?”
He never does get back to Langley.
Grayman Book One: Acts of War Page 59