by Kent, Steven
“It’s okay, Ava,” I said, stroking her back and realizing she would not feel my hand. “They’re gone. The aliens are gone. They’re gone for good. You’ll be safe here.”
“Wayson, maybe I should go back to the ship,” she said.
I pulled the jeep over and cut off the engine. Placing my hands on her shoulders, I turned Ava so that she faced me. I wanted to remove the helmet so I could be sure her eyes stayed on mine. “They are gone. You will be safe on this planet.”
“But what if they come back?” she asked.
“They won’t,” I said, though I had no way of knowing whether that was true. I would protect her if they did, though. I knew that much.
“I didn’t know it would look like this,” she said. “I don’t know if I can ever feel safe here.”
“You’ll be safe enough. Besides, you know what they have here that we don’t have on the ship?”
She shook her head. The movement was barely perceptible with the helmet over her head.
“They have dress shops.”
“But what if . . .”
“And shoe stores.”
“Can you protect . . .”
“And jewelry stores.”
“Damn it, Harris, you are such a specking guy.”
“Thank you,” I said.
“It’s not a compliment.” She laughed. Her laugh sounded like a metallic shutter coming through the audio equipment in her helmet. She took off her helmet, shook out her hair, and said, “If the women on this planet are anything like they were back in Hollywood, all the good stores will have been looted.”
I was sorry to see her go. When Ava turned brassy and sarcastic, that was when I liked her best. I wondered how quickly she would forget me.
As we approached the three buildings the locals used for dorms, Ava’s confidence dried up. She looked around at all the flat land and the rubble dunes. “This was a city?” she asked. She had to know what it had been.
“The aliens that hit this place four years ago, they’re all gone now. We chased them away,” I said.
“But how can you be sure?” she asked.
“They haven’t returned to New Copenhagen,” I said. “It’s been two and a half years now.”
I could hear her breathing. Her nervousness seemed to carry on the wind. “Maybe this isn’t a good idea.”
“You’ll be safe,” I said. I repeated myself, then I told her to put on her helmet. I did not want anyone to spot her until she was safely with Doctorow. I gave her a moment to adjust to her new surroundings and drove the rest of the way to the dorms.
Per my request, Doctorow met us at the dorms. Also per my request, he came alone. He had plenty of opportunity to hide observers or even snipers around the area, but I did not think that was his style.
He came wearing Army fatigues with the blouse unbuttoned and a T-shirt beneath.
“I did not expect you back so soon, Captain,” Doctorow said, as I climbed out of my jeep.
“I have something to discuss in private,” I said.
Looking past me and toward my jeep, Doctorow said, “We’re still not alone.”
“Actually, that’s the reason I came.”
He leaned into me and spoke in an angry tone. “Captain Harris, I hope you don’t expect me to let this man anywhere near my dorm building. That is simply out of the question. Only a fool permits a weasel to enter his chicken coop.”
As Doctorow spoke, I nodded to Ava, and she removed her helmet.
“How about an additional hen?” I asked.
Her hair now hung in a disheveled knot and her “queer gear” makeup was not the right shade for her eyes, but her skin was pale as a cloud and just as luminous.
“Good God,” Doctorow said.
Ava smiled, and said in her softest, most flirtatious voice, “There’s no need for profanity.” Hoping she would make an optimal first impression, I had prepped Ava to say this the first time anybody made an off-color comment. I had planned on slipping the word “speck” into something I said. This was better.
“Ava, this is Colonel Ellery Doctorow,” I said.
“Hello, Colonel Doctorow, I’m Ava Gardner,” she said in a low husky voice that left men helpless.
“I see that,” Doctorow said mechanically, his eyes transfixed.
She climbed out of the jeep, shook out her hair, and let it fall around her shoulders. She looked like a child wearing an adult’s armor.
“I heard rumors that she was, I mean that you were, there are all kinds of stories about you being . . .”
“. . . a clone?” she asked, finishing the sentence.
I felt a momentary jolt of pity for Doctorow. The gaze Ava gave him had always stripped away my confidence. When she turned on the charm, she left me feeling like an inferior species, like a caveman watching a ballerina.
Pity gave way to envy when Ava’s gaze did not shift back toward me. I wondered if perhaps Ava had gotten what she needed out of me, and envy turned into embarrassment. I remembered the things Ava had told me about Ted Mooreland and General Smith and wondered what she might say about me.
“What brings you to Norristown?” Doctorow asked.
“She needs a place to stay,” I said, pointing to the building for girls.
“Would that be okay with you, Colonel?” Ava asked, her eyes still holding him captive.
“No offense, ma’am, but you’re a bit old to room with these girls,” he said.
“Who takes care of them? They must need tutors and nannies. I can cook or clean.” She sounded downright domesticated, the perfect little housewife/sex goddess.
“I think she will be a lot safer here than on a ship,” I said.
“I see what you mean,” Doctorow conceded, though he seemed to have his doubts. He thought for a moment. “Of course she can stay. Of course.”
“Well, I guess my business is done here,” I said as I turned to leave, knowing that the empty pain I felt at the moment would turn into bitterness soon enough.
Both Ava and Doctorow stood rooted in place. I wondered if they even noticed, then she yelled, “Harris!”
I turned, and saw her running toward me. She crashed into me, which might have been a pleasant experience if she hadn’t been wearing hardened combat armor. When she threw her armor-plated arms around me, her custom-made exoskeleton dug into my shoulders. She pressed her mouth against mine.
“What kind of a good-bye was that?” she asked.
“I thought you were done with me,” I said.
“I swear, Harris, you are such a guy.” She smiled as she said this, her face just a few inches from mine. “I’ll be waiting for you.” She rubbed her armored shell against me, and added, “Come back soon.”
“As soon as I can,” I said.
“Sooner,” she said.
“Sooner,” I said.
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
Feeling like my life had headed in a good direction, I rode with Hollingsworth in the cockpit on the way back to the Kamehameha. He reported on the progress our engineers had made erecting hangars along the airfield. I didn’t really care what the engineers had or had not accomplished. I had Ava on my mind.
Maybe I was in love, maybe I was just more deeply in lust than I had ever been. I liked her strength. Sure, she’d panicked while we drove through Norristown, but so had some of my Marines.
As we took off, I searched the skies for traces of the ion curtain and came up dry. We cut across a clear blue sky, which faded white, then darkened into blackness as we climbed. Hollingsworth suggested ways to build rapport between the Marines and sailors under my command, and I pretended to listen. Off in the distance, I saw a giant disc floating in the darkness and realized that it was a broadcast station. The network was made up of mile-wide satellites.
I still had Ava on my mind, but I did what I could to hide my excitement from Hollingsworth and from myself. As we approached the fleet, I stared at the various ships, their triangular outlines reminding me of moths and wedges. H
ollingsworth located the Kamehameha in the logjam and got us clearance to land.
He was a good pilot. He brought us in smooth and fast, and touched us down gently. I still missed Herrington, the old veteran with whom I had fought some major battles, but Philo Hollingsworth was a good Marine.
The sled brought us through the locks and into the docking bay. With the docking bay in control of his transport, Hollingsworth powered down the engines and switched off the cockpit controls. Once he finished, we headed down into the kettle.
“You know, Captain Harris, I was thinking about Fahey. He’s okay. I mean he popped off pretty bad in that meeting, but do you blame him? I mean, he’s got to be desperate to find some scrub.” Hollingsworth dispensed this advice as the kettle doors opened.
“I hope you’re right, Sergeant, because I’m going to flatten the specker next time he crosses me,” I said. I wished Hollingsworth had not brought up Fahey. The mere thought of him made my stomach tense.
“Okay, well, what I really want to say, sir, is give Warshaw a fair break. He’s not like Fahey. He’s a stand-up officer. We’ve been on the same boat for four years now, and I can tell you, he’s not the kind of guy that shoots you in the back.”
“Speak of the devil,” I muttered.
Across the deck, Master Chief Petty Officer Gary Warshaw stood shouting orders to a pack of sailors. When he saw us, he worked up a smile and came bounding in our direction. I noted the spring in his step and decided it did not bode well. No matter what Hollingsworth said, this man was no friend.
In his right hand, Warshaw carried a folder with the seal of the Office of the Navy. Parking himself at the base of the ramp, the master chief looked up at me and saluted. “Captain Harris, may I have a private word with you, sir?”
Hollingsworth excused himself, shooting me an I-told-you-so self-satisfied smirk. He must have thought Warshaw had come to shake hands and ask to be my buddy. I made a mental note: reliable or not, Hollingsworth was a piss-poor judge of character.
“What can I do for you, Master Chief?” I asked, trying to smother the voice in my head. I got the same feeling in my gut dealing with sailors that I got pulling the pins from live grenades.
“I hope you don’t mind, sir, but I asked Admiral Thorne if he would join us,” Warshaw said, looking slightly apologetic.
“Not a problem,” I said, ignoring the tightening knot in my stomach. I really wanted to kill this man. I could feel the beginnings of a combat reflex. My nervous system did not differentiate between war and infighting.
Warshaw led me out of the landing area without any further explanation, and I followed without asking.
“I’m sorry I missed your staff meeting the other day. I hear you and Fahey had some friction.”
“You might say that,” I agreed. “Fahey seems to think he can ignore my orders.”
“I’ll have a word with him about that,” Warshaw said, sounding a little embarrassed. I took that as a good sign.
After that, the conversation trailed off. Trying to restart the collegial patter, Warshaw said, “Congratulations on liberating Terraneau. That’s quite an accomplishment.”
“I lost most of my men,” I said. “I’m not entirely sure that congratulations are in order.”
“You rescued a planet with a handful of Marines; congratulations are in order,” Warshaw said. He was all muscles and smiles, a man trying too hard to be my friend. “I haven’t seen the official report, but I understand the fighting was fierce.”
There was no official report; I had not written it yet. I did not point this out, though. If Warshaw wanted to be my buddy, I would go along for the ride. Maybe he would reveal a few of his cards.
He didn’t. He chatted me up as we walked most of the length of the ship, finally ending up in a conference room near the bridge. Thorne had already arrived. The normally passive admiral sat at the table looking irritable, his thin lips pursed and his eyes not quite meeting ours as we entered the room.
As a man holding the rank of master chief petty officer, Warshaw did not have the authority to call commissioned officers to meetings. He did not seem to care. Paying no attention to the look on Admiral Thorne’s face, he slid into the conference room and took a seat.
“What is this about?” Thorne asked as I sat down. Apparently he thought this meeting was my idea.
I shrugged.
“Actually, Admiral, I called this meeting, sir,” Warshaw said. “Well, maybe not me. I suppose you would say that Admiral Brocius is calling the shots.”
“Admiral Brocius?” Thorne repeated. “He’s back in Washington.”
“Yes, sir,” Warshaw said.
An embarrassed smile wormed its way across Warshaw’s mouth, and he said, “I took the liberty of traveling to Earth.”
“You what?” asked Admiral Thorne, his voice hard but low.
“I caught a ride back to Earth on the last transfer ship,” Warshaw said.
“Unless one of my senior officers approved that trip, you were absent without leave, Master Chief,” Thorne said.
“You’ll need to take that up with Admiral Brocius, Admiral. He approved my leave . . . retroactively.” Warshaw placed the folder with the Office of the Navy seal on the table and pulled two envelopes from it.
He slid Admiral Thorne an envelope with his name on it, then he handed me one with my name as well. A small triangle of foil sealed the back of the envelope—an automated security seal. When I pressed my thumb against the foil, it read my thumbprint and curled open.
As I removed the sheet of paper inside, Warshaw said, “Sorry, Harris, it’s nothing personal.”
I pretended not to hear him. My combat reflex was full-bore at that moment. In another minute, I might not be able to stop myself.
Beside me, Admiral Thorne silently read the contents of Admiral Brocius’s memo, his face an impassive mask. I did the same. I read and realized that Warshaw had not the slightest clue of what was written in these orders, the poor bastard.
When I looked up, I met Warshaw’s gaze. He had the petulant expression of a little boy caught breaking rules he does not like.
Thorne reread his letter, then folded it and slipped it back into its envelope. I placed mine face down on the table.
“So it’s official, Harris, once Admiral Thorne is gone, I will assume command of the fleet.”
“I see,” I said. The orders I had just read mentioned more than a change in command.
“You will retain the rank of general and assume command of the Marines,” Warshaw said.
Thorne started to say something, but Warshaw interrupted him. “I’m sorry to have gone around you, Admiral, but it had to be done. I could not allow them to leave the Scutum-Crux Fleet in the hands of a Marine.”
“I understand,” said Thorne.
“Do you have any questions, Captain Harris?” Warshaw asked. He sounded as if he were already a commanding officer, not a noncom speaking to an officer.
I shook my head.
“Admiral Thorne?”
“You took this directly to Admiral Brocius?”
“I served under him for twelve years in the Sagittarius Central Fleet,” Warshaw said. “Any other questions?” He paused, then said, “If neither of you have anything else to discuss, I think I’ll get back to work.” With that, he left the room.
“I never did care for that son of a bitch,” Thorne said, as soon as the door closed behind Warshaw.
“Which son of a bitch?” I asked. “Brocius or Warshaw?”
“Either of them. Both of them,” Thorne said.
I passed Thorne my orders.
Wayson Harris,
Captain,
UAMC, Scutum-Crux Fleet
Captain Harris, it has been brought to my attention that there are questions about the transfer of power in the Scutum-Crux Fleet. Master Chief Petty Officer Gary Warshaw has lodged a formal complaint about a Marine taking control of the fleet.
As the ranking Naval NCO, the master chief believes
he should assume command of the fleet. I have considered his petition and agree.
You shall remain Commandant of the Marines.
Further, per Master Chief Warshaw’s suggestion, we shall rely upon the survivors of Terraneau to elect their own planet administrator.
Harris, it is vital that this transfer of command be carried out without incident. Once Admiral Thorne and his officers have transferred out, you are authorized to deal with Warshaw as you see fit.
Admiral Alden Brocius,
Office of the Navy
“ ‘Deal with Warshaw as you see fit’?” Thorne said as he finished reading. “Am I misreading this, or did Admiral Brocius just authorize you to kill that poor bastard?”
“Let’s just say he is not going to limit my options,” I said.
“Can you make heads or tails of this?” Thorne asked as he slid the envelope to me. I pulled out the orders. The page was blank except for three names: Grayson, Moffat, Ravenwood.
“Does that mean anything to you?” Thorne asked. “I assume this message was meant for you as well.”
“Yes, sir.”
“What’s Grayson?”
“Not ‘what.’ ‘Who.’ Colonel Aldus Grayson. He was my commanding officer for a short while.”
“What happened to him?” Thorne asked.
“Somebody shot him.”
“People get shot all the time during war,” Thorne pointed out.
“There were no enemies in the vicinity,” I said. “A lot of people think I shot him.”
“Did you?”
“That’s the rumor,” I said.
“And Moffat?”
“Another CO.”
“Did you kill him, too?”
“Yeah. There were witnesses that time.”
“Was he the guy on New Copenhagen? I heard about him.”
“There were two inquests, I was cleared of all charges both times,” I said.
“What about Ravenwood? Another dead officer?”
“It’s a planet.”
“You killed a planet?” Thorne asked.
“The Marines had an outpost on Ravenwood.”
“Ravenwood Outpost . . . shit, I know about that,” Thorne said, recognizing the name. Ravenwood was the Scutum-Crux Arm’s answer to Roanoke. Every platoon the Marines sent to Ravenwood Outpost vanished. According to the official report, no one ever made it off the planet alive. That was a whitewash. In truth, no one ever lasted his first night on that planet.
