by Dan Cragg
Gina gave him a dubious look, then glanced at Rhon, who shrugged and began mixing another drink for Claypoole. When Gina went to the bar to get it, Rhon drew her into brief, whispered consultation. She nodded, then picked up the fresh drink and marched it to the wildly grinning Claypoole.
“You’re cut off after this one, Marine,” she said firmly.
He grinned innocently at her. “Tol’ you, call me Rock.”
“It doesn’t matter what I call you. You’re cut off after this one.”
“Wha’ eber you say, love.” He reached for her, but she’d already stepped out of reach, and he had to grab the table with both hands to avoid falling onto the floor. More or less stable, he lifted the glass with both hands and drained half of it without spilling too much down his chin. He barely got the glass back on the table before he began swaying too much to keep a firm grip on it.
With much cautious twisting, turning, and shifting about on the chair, Claypoole propped his elbows on the tabletop and laid the top of his chest against the table’s edge. Squinting to focus, he gripped the glass with both hands and lowered his head until his grinning mouth was in contact with the rim of the glass. Gingerly, as though lifting something of immense value and incredible fragility, he raised himself, holding the glass in a three-point grip—both hands and his mouth—tipping his head and the glass back. Before he realized it, he was tipped back far enough that the liquor was flowing into his mouth. He kept tipping backward until he overbalanced and toppled to the floor.
Gina wasn’t looking, and jumped at the crash of Claypoole and chair hitting the floor, but she knew instantly what had happened and ran to kneel at his side. Her hands gently probed his head, looking for soft spots and blood. She didn’t find any.
That just happened to be when Big Barb came out of her office, located behind the bar. “Vot’s goink on here?” she bellowed. Her eyes immediately picked out the source of the noise and she bustled over to see whether she had to worry about liability.
“Glaypoole?” she said when she saw the passed-out Marine. She shot a look at Rhon the bartender. “Dit you gib him von off your concoctionsh?”
Rhon shrugged. “He said he wanted something strong.”
“That’s right, Big Barb,” Gina put in. “He said he’d had an awful morning and wanted something to help him forget it.”
“Zo you giff him a concoction? Dat vasn’t enuf to knock him out.”
“Two of them,” Gina said.
“Doubles,” Rhon added.
Big Barb shuddered at the thought of someone drinking two of Rhon’s “concoctions.” Doubles, no less.
“Gid ober ’ere,” she ordered Rhon. “Stan’ ’im up. No, no,” she said when Rhon grabbed Claypoole under his shoulders. “Put the chair ub, den sid ’im on it. Tha’s right, lay his head on his harms. Led ’im sleeb it off. We ain’ gonna be so busy for a while we’ll need the table.” She waddled away, shaking her head and muttering under her breath.
Gina watched until Big Barb was far enough away, then adjusted Claypoole’s head, arms, and shoulders into a position that would leave him less stiff than the way Rhon had dumped him.
And that’s how Sergeant Kerr and Lance Corporal Ymenez found him when they entered Big Barb’s a few hours later.
“Mmrph.”
“That’s not good enough, Marine,” Sergeant Kerr said, and shook Claypoole’s shoulder again.
“Mmlmpf.”
“Is this really the image you want your junior man to have of his fire team leader?” Kerr clamped a hand on top of Claypoole’s head, lifted, and let go. Claypoole’s head clunked back onto his folded arms.
“Emmeone.” Claypoole feebly shifted his head’s position on his arms.
Big Barb bustled over. “Dam drunk Marine,” she sputtered, as though she were seeing the passed-out Claypoole for the first time. “Timmy, vhy you led your corporals gid drunk like dat, and zo early inna day?”
As broad as Big Barb was, she didn’t look big enough to bowl Kerr over; he was the tallest Marine in third platoon, several centimeters over two meters. He looked down at her from his imposing height.
“Big Barb, I wasn’t here when Claypoole got drunk. You were. Why did you let him get so drunk?”
Big Barb didn’t care that she barely came up to Kerr’s chest; she wasn’t intimidated by his height. “Dat don’ madder,” she snorted. “He’s your man, nod mine! You da responzible von!”
Kerr locked glares with Big Barb, and shook Claypoole’s shoulder again. The two were so intent on staring each other down that neither noticed when the kitchen doors swung open and Lance Corporal Schultz walked into the common room. For those present who did see Schultz, the big, bronze-skinned Marine didn’t appear to look around, or to be in a hurry to get anywhere in particular, but within seconds of entering the room he was at the table where Claypoole was still mumbling demands to be left alone. Schultz kicked the chair out from under his fire team leader, dumping Claypoole quite unceremoniously on the floor.
Kerr and Big Barb broke their stare-down and switched their attention to Claypoole. But before either of them could move, Claypoole bounded to his feet, and came up swinging. He didn’t know who had knocked him down, and didn’t care, only that somebody was going to pay for it. He swung blindly at the first human form in his sight.
Which happened to be Hammer Schultz.
Schultz was expecting a violent reaction from Claypoole and was ready. His left hand flew up and caught Claypoole’s flying right fist like an infielder’s glove snagging a line drive. Then his right hand caught Claypoole’s left. Schultz held on to both. Claypoole tried, and kept trying, to pull his fists back and throw more punches, but all he accomplished was to give his shoulders a workout. He didn’t see who was holding his hands.
Kerr and Schultz looked at each other over Claypoole’s bobbing head. They knew that he had planned to spend the entire five-day liberty with his girlfriend and that he had gone straight to her farm when he left Camp Ellis the day before. But they’d found him sleeping off a drunk at Big Barb’s. Kerr nodded at Schultz, then stepped close to Claypoole and put his mouth near the corporal’s head.
“Attention on deck!” he roared into Claypoole’s ear, and jerked back fast enough to avoid being hit when Claypoole snapped to attention.
Claypoole blinked a few times as he gained awareness of his surroundings: Schultz standing in front of him; that new guy who’d replaced MacIlargie when the Wolfman went into the hospital, standing wide-eyed on the other side of the table; Marines and locals at other tables staring at him; some of Big Barb’s serving girls frozen in place, staring at him. He turned his head and saw Sergeant Kerr giving him the gimlet eye. He noticed that nobody else had come to attention at the command.
“What the fuck?” he murmured.
“Are you over your fight?” Kerr asked.
Claypoole looked from Kerr to Schultz, realized whom he’d been trying to fight with, and swallowed. “I’m over it.”
“Good. Pick up your chair and sit down. When was the last time you ate?”
Claypoole had to think about it. “B-breakfast.” His voice broke when he remembered what happened shortly after breakfast.
“That’s long enough.” Kerr looked at Big Barb. “I think he needs some stew.”
Big Barb eyed Claypoole. “I tink you right,” she agreed, and signaled for one of the servers. “She take care off it,” she said, and waddled away.
“Water for him, no beer,” Kerr told the girl when she took the order for stew for Claypoole, reindeer steaks and ale for the others.
Before the food and drink came, Claypoole abruptly leaped to his feet and bolted toward the restroom. He was gone for nearly ten minutes. When he came back his face was obviously scrubbed, and the chest area of his shirt was wet.
“Barf?” Schultz asked when Claypoole sat back down.
Claypoole nodded. “Where’s a corpsman when you need one?” he asked.
“You can go without,” K
err told him. “That’ll teach you not to get so shitfaced.” He saw the look that Schultz gave him, and added, “Or maybe not.”
CHAPTER SIX
Sonia Motlaw, special envoy from Wanderjahr, sat comfortably in the Company L orderly room waiting for Corporal Dean to arrive. She regarded Captain Conorado silently. He had the rugged, athletic look she prized in a man. His office, like that of the FIST commander, was devoid of any personal items save a small hologram of what appeared to be himself and his family, which sat on one corner of his desk.
“I was told not to ask you what you’re here for, ma’am,” Conorado began. “I was told you would not be staying long.”
“Please, ‘Sonia.’” She smiled. “Yes, I’m returning to New Oslo tonight. My message for Corporal Dean is personal and my instructions were not to reveal its contents to anyone. But I assure you, Captain—”
“‘Lew,’ then, if you please.” Conorado smiled.
“—Lew, that it in no way constitutes an embarrassment to Dean or your Corps. I don’t have to tell you how much we Wander-jahrians appreciate what your Marines did for us during your deployment to our world. I also want to assure you—Ye gods, what in the hell is that?” she screamed, rising halfway out of her seat and pointing at the corner of the room. Her face had turned ghastly pale.
Conorado looked up to where she was pointing and he half expected to see an apparition. “Oh, that.” He smiled. “That’s only Owen. He’s a Woo. He perches on the top of that locker when I have strangers in here. He likes to size them up, so to speak, from that vantage point. We Marines believe in seizing the high ground whenever we can.”
“Good God, Lew.” Sonia laughed nervously, her face turning from pale with fright to red with embarrassment. “I thought it was a ghost, shimmering away up there like that. What is that thing?”
“Woos are native to Diamunde. We deployed there some years ago. Corporal Dean, actually, brought him back here with him and he’s become our company mascot. We named him Owen. Ask Dean to tell you how they met. Fascinating story. He almost got us all court-martialed on another occasion when a scientist wanted to take him from us for vivisectioning and Dean threatened to shoot her.” He chuckled. “One thing about that lad, Sonia, he’s a tough Marine, and he knows what’s right—and he isn’t afraid to act on it.”
“Hello, Owen.” Sonia waved at the Woo. “Are they sentient?” she asked.
“No,” Conorado replied, a bit too quickly, Sonia thought. “Well, nobody knows, actually. They can sense moods in humans and express their own moods by changing colors, like chameleons. I think he likes you.”
Someone knocked twice on the door. “That should be our man. Come,” Conorado responded.
Dean strode into the room, came to attention, and saluted. “Sir, Corporal Dean—”
“No need for that, Corporal. Come over here and meet this lady.”
Sonia rose smoothly, walked over to Dean, who was still at rigid attention, and held out her hand to him. “Corporal Dean, my name is Sonia Motlaw. I’m a special envoy from Wanderjahr. I’ve come a long way to see you. I have a message for you from Hway Kuetgens.” She smiled that enchanting smile.
“Hway?” Dean glanced at Captain Conorado, who just nodded silently. “Hway?” he repeated, swallowing hard. “How is she?” The question sounded very awkward to Dean as his mind raced back to their parting, he to return to duty, she to take over the government of Morgenluft, their short, passionate relationship ending almost before it had begun. “My brave Marine,” he remembered her saying to him as she gave him a parting kiss. It seemed like only yesterday, but they had parted, what, six or seven years ago now? He’d thought of her often since then through all the lonely and hellish days and nights the men of Thirty-fourth FIST had endured. Now he found himself overwhelmed by a flood of emotion.
“She is fine. Corporal, what do your friends call you?”
“Uh, Joseph?” He glanced again at Conorado, who nodded.
“May I call you Joseph? You may call me Sonia.” She laid a hand on Dean’s shoulder and smiled.
“Yes, ma’am, sure.”
“Good. Captain, I’d like to talk to Corporal Dean privately. Can you let him drive me back to Mainside? I can deliver my message on the way.”
“I’ll have the first sergeant make the company landcar available. Be back in time for reveille,” Conorado said with a wink. Dean’s face flushed.
“He’ll be back very soon,” Sonia said as if to reassure Conorado, but totally missing the joke.
“Whew,” Lew Conorado sighed, after the pair had departed. “What do you make of all that, Owen?”
“I like the lady, and if I’m not mistaken, Lewis, our Joseph Finucane Dean’s message has something to do with another lady.”
“Yes, a matter of honor, I take it. You’re getting to know us humans rather well in your old age.”
“You aren’t hard to understand, once someone gets to know you.” Owen leaped gracefully onto the corner of Conorado’s desk and stood there wobbling, regarding him intently with his huge eyes.
“How are you feeling, Owen?” The Woo was showing his age. He was not as agile as he once was and he’d often reminded Conorado that he was nearing the end of his life span.
“Tolerable, skipper, tolerable. That envoy lady, she’s some special dish, ain’t she?”
Conorado scowled. “Owen, where’d you pick that up? You’ve been spending far too much time in the goddamned barracks.”
Once seated in the landcar, Sonia turned to Dean. “Take your time driving me back to the port, Joseph. What I have to tell you may take a while. Is there someplace along the way you can pull off and we can talk?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Please, Joseph, call me Sonia! That ‘ma’am’ stuff makes me feel so old.” She laughed. To Dean she appeared very young, certainly under forty.
“Well, it just is…you’re some kind of ambassador and I’m just a Marine corporal, ma’am, so I feel really awkward calling you anything but ma’am.” Dean shrugged. “It’s the way we’re brought up in the Corps, I guess. Anyway, would you call me ‘Joe’? Joseph is what my mom used to call me all the time.”
“Where do your parents live, Joe?”
“They’re dead. My dad died a long time ago and my mom just after I enlisted in the Corps. I was an only child, so I guess the Corps is my family now. How about you?”
“My particulars are of no importance in this,” she replied. Then she asked, “Do you have a sweetheart?”
Dean glanced hard at Sonia sitting muffled in a huge parka, her breath steaming in the cold. “Well…Are you cold? The heat’ll be up in a minute. Sometimes it gets so hot in these cars it blasts you right out—”
“A handsome man like you should have someone, Joe.”
“Well, over in Bronnys, that’s where we go for liberty, Bronnoysund, there are some nice girls, but you know, we Marines are off on deployments so much…” He left the sentence unfinished in the hope that she would change the subject. He wasn’t about to tell this sophisticated lady anything about Big Barb’s and what went on there. Not that he felt guilty about it, but he sensed that a place like Big Barb’s was totally alien to a person like Sonia Motlaw.
They pulled into a roadside park. It was at least a meter deep in snow but the landcar plowed easily through it into the empty parking lot. “This is a nice place when there isn’t any snow,” Dean offered. He put the car into park but left the engine running.
Sonia turned in her seat to face Dean directly. “Joe, you do have someone and she is Hway Kuetgens. Here.” She opened her bag and handed him a portable reader. “Look at what’s on the screen.”
In the reader’s screen appeared a smiling boy perhaps seven or eight years old. Dean’s heart skipped a beat. The child was holding Hway’s hand. Suddenly the memory of her rushed back upon him, the smell of her hair, her breath against his neck, the warmth of her cheek against his, the rich odor of the earth in that tomato patch back
on Wanderjahr where they’d made love in the dust between the rows of plants. “Ah,” he sighed.
“That boy is your son.”
At first Dean couldn’t say a word. Gradually the import of what Sonia had just told him sunk in, causing him to catch his breath. “I—I—”
“You didn’t know.” Sonia nodded. “Hway wanted it that way. She had her mission, you had yours. You had to go your separate ways.” She told Dean all that had happened to Hway Kuetgens in the intervening years, including her assumption of the leadership of the Morgenluft government and her election to the Chair of the Ruling Council.
“Wh-what is the boy’s name?”
“Dean.” Sonia took the reader back, glanced at the hologram image, and smiled. “He looks just like you, doesn’t he?” She handed the reader back. “Keep this, Joe. It’s the reason I’ve come all this way to see you. Joe, in two years we’re having an election. Ms. Kuetgens cannot run for another term as chair and she plans to retire to Morgenluft. Your son asks after you often. It’s time he met his father. How much longer do you have on your enlistment?”
“Uh, two years, ma’am.”
“Well.” Sonia scratched her chin. “That really is the message.”
“That’s it?”
“Yes. Well, if you were to take your discharge and come back to Wanderjahr, if only for a visit, that would make your son very happy. I know what kind of Marine you are, Joe, and he would be thrilled to have such a brave man as his father. And of course if you wanted to stay with us”—she brushed the side of Dean’s face with her hand—“you would be welcome.”
“Quit the Corps?”
Sonia did not reply. She rubbed her hands together. “It’s warming up in here.”
