Vanden Hoyt hesitantly stood and shook it.
"Give Charlie my best. And get on with your training program." With that, he left.
Chapter Six
Brigadier Sturgeon, true to his word, moved his headquarters into an old warehouse complex at the Brosigville port the morning after the bombing. By nightfall his drastically reduced staff had been completely ensconced in its new quarters. Of the 150-odd men usually assigned to a FIST command staff, Brigadier Sturgeon had less than eighty in the new facility, and of them. Dean and Claypoole, as privates first class, were the lowest ranking.
The building was in a cul-de-sac at the end of a long, narrow roadway that was under surveillance around the clock. Everyone entering the complex passed through surveillance devices that detected explosives and weapons; nothing was permitted in the main building unless it had been screened and carried in by the Marines themselves. All other vehicular traffic was diverted to a parking lot more than a hundred meters from the main entrance, and passengers had to walk from there. Not even a knife could be taken into the headquarters undetected. Surveillance radars mounted on the roof and tied in to the string-of-pearls satellites in orbit around Wanderjahr would give adequate warning if the complex were to come under fire by projectile weapons, which could then be quickly neutralized.
Between working for Commander Peters by day and mandatory security duty at night, the team of Dean and Claypoole had hardly any free time to themselves. All the Marines, officers, NCOs, and junior enlisted men lived inside the headquarters; some, such as the communications and aviation personnel, set up their sleeping units at their workstations so they could be available around the clock. Dean and Claypoole were allowed to pick an empty storage room for their quarters, an unaccustomed luxury for Marine infantrymen, who in garrison lived in barrack complexes, each fire team in its own room but each complex containing hundreds of other men. There was always somebody popping into the fire team rooms, and the common areas were constantly astir with men playing cards, talking, horsing around. And back in garrison, everyone's life was strictly regulated by the training and deployment missions of their units. Here, when off duty, they were all by themselves. Compared to the hubbub of barracks life, the silence in the building was disturbing at first. The big recreational event of the day for all the Marines on the staff was mealtimes. The mess section had been left fully staffed because the brigadier believed Marines worked best on a full stomach.
"Gentlemen," Commander Peters announced early one morning about a week after the move to Brosigville, "the brigadier and I are flying into the hills today. You deserve a break. Be back in the building in time for guard mount tonight." The two looked at their new boss for about five seconds before grabbing their covers and side arms and bolting out the door.
Outside, Claypoole skidded to a stop near the entrance to the motor pool and stood looking into it with a bemused expression.
"Hey, get a move on," Dean shouted when he noticed Claypoole wasn't still with him. "The town's this way."
Without looking at him, Claypoole waved at Dean to come back.
"What?" Dean demanded as he closed the gap.
"We're going in style." Claypoole turned his head and grinned at Dean.
"What do you mean?"
"The section landcar."
"We can't use that. It's for Commander Peters's official use."
"Sure we can. We work for him, he sent us on liberty, we're on official business for him."
"But—"
Claypoole didn' t wait to hear Dean's objection. He darted to the F-2's landcar, which was only a few meters inside the motor pool, got in, and drove it out. "Get in," he said as he stopped next to Dean and opened the passenger-side door.
Dean protested, but climbed in anyway. Once they were on their way he said, "The commander didn't say we could take his car off the port!"
"He didn't say we couldn't," Claypoole responded. "Don't worry, the communications center knows where we'll be every second, and if they need us or want to call us back, they can do that. So far as I know, nothing around here's off-limits to us—yet."
Dean considered that for a moment and shrugged.
The Brosigville spaceport occupied thousands of hectares and was a small city unto itself. Just outside its main gate was the village of Rosario, a suburb of Brosigville. "We're going to Juanita's," Claypoole announced as they were perfunctorily waved through the gate.
Claypoole guided the landcar down a tree-lined boulevard and turned up a side street. It ended abruptly in a cul-de-sac. "Damn!" Claypoole muttered, turning the vehicle around. "Turned too soon. I've only been out here once before," he added, smiling awkwardly. Dean just made a face and kept his silence.
Juanita's was nestled among a row of shops and cafes about a kilometer from the gate. Behind it the neighboring low hills, heavily wooded with grospalms and spikers, rolled away toward the city. The setting was more rural than urban, and the small businesses served mostly local residents, nearly all of them employees at the port. Juanita's was a haven for the men and women from the shuttle craft that were constantly coming and going at the port. Just then, in the middle of the morning, the place was nearly deserted.
"Place jumps after dark, or at least it did the one time I was in here," Claypoole said as he pushed aside the beaded curtains that hung over the doorway. "We'll have a few beers and some breakfast, okay?"
"I don't have much money," Dean said.
"Don't need much." Claypoole pulled out a wad of Wanderjahr marks. Each mark was worth about one-third of a Confederation credit, the currency in which the Marines were paid. "A mark will get you a whole breakfast," Claypoole said. "Twenty-five fennies for a beer." There were a hundred fennies to a mark. The Wanderjahrian currency system was based on the German mark of Old Earth, but over the generations since the original settlement, the German word pfennig had become "fenny." Upon their arrival, the Marines had been permitted to convert fifty credits to marks, not that any of them ever expected to get much chance to spend the money in Brosigville or anywhere else on the planet.
Inside Juanita's it was cool and quiet. The air was circulated by large ceiling fans that rotated lazily.
"Welcome, Marines!" a large brown woman sitting at a cashier's station shouted warmly.
"Juanita!" Claypoole exclaimed. "You remembered me!"
"Yes, Mr. Kaypole. You bring friend?" Claypoole introduced Dean, who shook hands modestly with the big woman. Hearing the greetings, several young women came in from the sunlit patio at the rear of the cafe and gathered around the Marines.
"Employees!" Claypoole winked at Dean. "Breakfast, please, Juanita." As soon as the Wanderjahrian breakfast—boiled and baked meats from animals native to the planet, fresh bread, and a variety of luscious fruits—was served, the young women, idle and bored during the daytime, crowded around the Marines' table, chattering excitedly among themselves and eagerly urging various dishes upon the two men. One of the fruits, a long skinny white melon they referred to as a "Canfil watermelon," was especially delicious. Filled with a thick, creamy white juice, extremely sweet, and rich and seedless, they scooped it out eagerly with large silver spoons.
"Buddha's brown balls," Dean whispered, "this is embarrassing!" A very beautiful girl, who said her name was Magdalena, sat next to Claypoole and laughed merrily as she tried to feed him pieces of fruit. Claypoole immediately dubbed her "Maggie," and before she could react, planted a wet kiss full on her lips. The other women shrieked with laughter and the brown-skinned Maggie blushed so hard her face turned almost black. She slapped Claypoole on the cheek, hard. The blow echoed throughout the dining room and brought tears to his eyes. Then she kissed him back very long and very hard and laughed.
Rising suddenly, Maggie took a musical instrument, something like a banjo, off the wall and began to sing a lively ballad in three-four time. Her voice was a surprisingly good soprano and she plucked the instrument's strings expertly. The other girls laughed and began to keep time by c
lapping their hands.
"What language is she singing?" Dean asked.
"It is the old language our ancestors brought here," a girl who called herself Jallalla said. "The song is about a man who comes home and finds that his wife has run away with his best friend."
"Oh, how sad!" Dean replied.
"He is singing about how much he misses his friend." Jallalla laughed.
"Oh," Dean said.
Jallalla leaned close to Dean and said, "No, that is not what she is singing at all. She sings about your friend and the song is very dirty."
"Oh," Dean replied. "Why doesn't anybody ever sing a song like that about me?"
Jallalla leaned even closer and whispered into his ear, "Come back tonight and I will sing a song like that about you too, and nobody else will hear me but you."
Done with breakfast, the Marines ordered beer. It proved to be weak and lukewarm. Brewing was an art the original settlers had not brought with them from Germany. "Reindeer piss!" Dean exclaimed. He was used to the full-bodied brews of Thorsfinni's World. Claypoole made a face and pushed his glass away. "Guess we'll order water," he said.
"No, no," Maggie, who had finished singing and returned her banjo to its peg, protested. "Smoke thule with us!"
Claypoole made another face and shook his head. The Marines were forbidden to use thule on duty and discouraged from using the drug off duty. Maggie lighted up a cigarillo and sucked the smoke deep into her lungs. Exhaling, she offered it to Claypoole. He looked at the beer and he looked at Maggie, and took the cigarillo. "Mmm. 'Finni tobacco is better," he said, exhaling a thin blue cloud of smoke, "and this doesn't do any... Hey! Dean-o, try this shit!"
Dean took the cigarillo and drew on it. The smoke tasted sweet and caused a pleasant tingling sensation as it passed into his lungs. He blew it out through his nose. The smell and taste reminded him of flower blossoms but not so cloying. He remembered the faintly acrid aroma from the day he'd talked to the drivers who'd been smoking it at Arschmann's mansion and noted it seemed to be missing now. "Do you have different, uh, grades of thule, I mean very good, not so good?" he asked one of the girls.
She smiled and nodded. "But this thule is very good quality," she said.
A feeling of great peace and satisfaction settled over Dean. But at the same time his senses remained alert, keen. He took another drag and then another. The intensity of the feeling did not increase. Jallalla said, "You smoke thule long time, feel very good while you smoke, but go back to normal when done." She smiled at Dean and draped a brown arm about his neck. He could clearly see the fine black hairs on the back of her arm. He took her hand in his and thought he could feel the blood pulsing through her fingers. "Thule a little different for each person," Jallalla told him.
"You bet!" Claypoole answered, feeling an erection beginning.
"But nobody ever fight when using thule," the third girl, Auca, told them.
"It sure doesn't cut down on hormones!" Claypoole laughed as his hand caressed Maggie's considerable frontage. She squeezed his earlobe—hard—in return.
Dean felt himself slipping into a state of euphoria. While he remained acutely conscious of everything about him, even the mundane objects in the room took on the appearance of brilliant works of art. He regarded the still-full beer glass before him on the table and marveled at how wonderfully the bubbles proceeded from the bottom to join the thin head of foam just under the rim. How could he have been so insensitive as to think this was an inferior brew? He sipped some of the beer. It still tasted like reindeer piss. But good, very good.
Dean smiled up at Jallalla, who was now sitting very close to him at the table. She leaned closer and nibbled on his ear-lobe. "Come back tonight?" she whispered, and then slowly kissed him. Dean closed his eyes and tasted the girl's lips. Her teeth brushed lightly against his and he felt a pleasant electric shock at the contact.
"Hey," Claypoole shouted, "everybody out back! C'mon, we're gonna spend the day on the patio!"
The next hour was the most pleasant Joe Dean could ever remember. Juanita's patio extended for fifty meters behind the dining room and was surrounded by a lush garden. Chairs and tables were spaced at wide intervals. Half a kilometer beyond the garden the verdant hills began. At that time of day the sun was pleasantly warm, so the five of them sat at one table in the shade of a vine covered trellis, drank cool fruit punch, smoked thule, laughed, bantered, and spoke of home and family and friends. Claypoole recited the events of their recent adventures on Elneal as the girls listened with wide-eyed attention. He promised to introduce them to the magnificent Charlie Bass, and he really meant it.
Dean was lolling with one arm about Jallalla and the other around Auca, puffing on his second cigarillo, totally at peace with himself and the entire universe, regarding with a deep sense of well-being the stunning natural beauty of the green hills beyond the patio. The girls, puffing on their own cigarillos, sighed contentedly.
Dean remembered his friend, Fred McNeal, who'd been killed on Elneal. He thought how much Freddie would've enjoyed Wanderjahr and Juanita's. But this time, for a change, remembering his dead friend did not fill him with sadness. He tried to conjure a mental image of McNeal, but it kept going out of focus, and Dean realized Fred's features were already beginning to fade in his memory. No matter, Freddie had died bravely, and when it was his own time to go. Dean knew, he wouldn't be afraid.
Maggie, meanwhile, had put her mouth close to Claypoole's ear, to tell the lance corporal the only news short of promotion he ever wanted to hear. She whispered, "Come with me to my room. Now."
Then Dean saw a bright flash on the distant hillside, and he lurched forward, pulling the two women with him to the ground. Three more flashes winked from the hillside in quick succession. The first bullet smacked into the table where Dean had been sitting, plowing a furrow through the wood, then ricocheting off the paving stones in a bright flash of sparks and fragments. The second went through the hole punched in the wood by the first one and spanged harmlessly off the paving stones. But the third round hit Maggie just behind her right ear and exited the other side of her head in a spray of blood mixed with bone fragments and chunks of brain. The fourth round whizzed harmlessly past Claypoole's right ear.
In the next second the distant pop-pop-pop-pop of the discharges reached their ears. And then Claypoole was on his feet, holding Maggie in his arms, her red wet blood smeared all over his face, uttering a scream of rage and despair so terrible it made Dean's blood run cold.
Quickly, Dean got the others inside the cafe, and after a few moments Claypoole came to his senses and they drew their weapons, prepared for an assault, but none came and no more shots were fired at them. They comforted the two hysterical girls as best they could while waiting for the police and emergency units. The thule did not help at all in these circumstances. Juanita fluttered about, muttering to herself, "Bad things happen now you Marines come here, bad, bad things!" Dean wanted to shut her up, a rising sense of anger and frustration mounting inside him, but he could think of nothing to say that would silence the woman who only a little while earlier had welcomed them so warmly.
They had dragged Maggie's body inside with them. Now she lay in a corner, draped with a cloth hastily snatched from a nearby table, dark blood slowly pooling beneath her head. Her feet stuck out from the sheet. One still wore a sandal; the other was bare. Dean looked steadily at the one bare foot for a long time. She had manicured her toenails, he noticed. She would never do that again, or sing a song either, or laugh, or... He thought again of McNeal and shook his head sharply. He was losing it. He focused his mind on the royal ass-chewing they'd get when Brigadier Sturgeon found out about the day's events.
Claypoole kept his mind as nearly blank as he could. He lay prone just inside the door to the patio, his weapon leveled at the rear of the patio, watching for movement from the direction of the nearby hills.
Dean went over to Juanita. "Did you call the police?" he asked.
"I call them! I
call them!" she exclaimed, then broke into sobs. Dean put his arm awkwardly around her and she rested her head on his shoulder.
That's how they were standing when the first police vehicle roared up outside and uniformed officers, weapons drawn, burst in through the door. Dean wondered just what they'd been told had happened when two officers rushed up and grabbed him by the arms. A third removed his blaster from its holster. Instantly, the place was full of police officers. Three more pulled Claypoole up from the floor. Claypoole snatched his right arm free and delivered a roundhouse blow to the side of the second officer's head, but his legs were kicked out from under him and he crashed to the floor with two policemen on top. The man he'd hit took an electric prod from his equipment belt, set it on stun, and was about to deliver a knockout shock when a powerful voice sounded from the doorway.
"Halt!" Everyone froze. Two men entered, one short and trim and wearing a uniform, the other much larger and dressed in loose civilian clothes. The big man walked to the center of the room and ordered the officers to release the two Marines. Dean was pleasantly surprised to see it was Chief Long.
"Lads, I want you to meet Commissioner Alois Landser, chief of the Brosigville Stadtpolizei and the man responsible for law enforcement through all of Arschland," Chief Hugyens Long said. Landser, a spare, gray little man with a black goatee, clicked his heels loudly and bowed slightly as he was introduced. He wore an immaculate uniform, a sky-blue tunic with black trousers sporting a bloodred stripe down the outside seam of each leg. His black leather Sam Browne belt shone with polish, and a silver badge of office glittered brightly above his left breast pocket. A smart visored cap, bill polished to mirrorlike perfection, was held tightly under one arm. The other policemen who swarmed through the cafe and out the back toward the hills were dressed similarly, except that lieutenants and below wore white tunics.
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