by John Bowers
She laid down her drumstick.
"No appetite, I guess."
Carson took another bite, chewed and swallowed, then laid down the bone.
"Okay. Big brother time. Pretend I'm your commanding officer. What's the problem?"
She smiled thinly at him. "You are my commanding officer."
"Then it should be easy. Talk to me."
She lowered her eyes and shrugged, her black hair shining in the overhead lights. She'd brushed it out for dinner.
"I'm not sure. Even if I was, I don't know if I want to talk about it."
He considered that for a moment. He respected her privacy, but had never seen her so quiet. Tired, frazzled, frustrated — never introspective.
"If we had to fly a mission right now," he asked evenly, "would you be up to it?"
"Of course. Why wouldn't I?"
"Are you sure?"
It was her turn to consider the answer, and her eyes lost their focus before she answered.
"I don't know," she admitted finally.
"Then maybe we should talk about it. DSCS?"
She smiled, shook her head. "No. That's silly."
"Why is it silly?"
"Because there's no such thing. It's just a convenient diagnosis to let women out of the service."
"You're a woman."
"Don't try to make me laugh."
Clearly she didn't want to talk about it. Just as clearly, as far as Carson could tell, something was eating at her. He finished his coffee in silence, watching her pick at her food. Aware of his scrutiny, she made the effort, but still ate very little. Finally she pushed her plate away, wiped her mouth with a napkin, and sighed.
"I think I'll head for quarters," she said. "I'm tired."
Carson glanced at his wristwatch. It was only 2000 local time.
"I'll walk with you."
They left the mess hall and strolled across the fighter base, breathing the smells of jet and rocket fuel. It was just dark. The bustle of normal activity all around them belied the fact that a war was going on. Neither spoke until they reached the barrack where they had separate quarters. With a bashful smile, she told him good night.
"Carla … "
She looked back.
"I'm taking you offline for seventy-two hours. Rest up, okay? Get drunk, get laid, whatever."
Her brow furrowed in surprise.
"James, I told you — I'm okay."
"You said you didn't know if you could handle a mission. Whether you can or not, you can use three days off. I'll notify the major at the hospital."
"James, really …"
"Consider it an order, Captain. See you in three days."
Chapter 38
Monday, 22 February, 0230 (PCC) - Langley, VA, North America, Terra
Peter Miller placed his hands expectantly in his lap as Andrew Lockner sat down in front of his desk. If Miller was the brains of the Federation Intelligence Agency, Lockner was the legs — the man who directly oversaw operations. Every order was passed through him, the results of its execution returned to him. Peter Miller leaned on him heavily.
Miller said nothing as Lockner opened a folder and sorted papers for a moment, as if arranging his thoughts. The E-shield was on, so anything said in the room could not be overheard. Lockner took a deep breath and looked up.
"Mister Lonely," he said deliberately, "is still a puzzle. I still don't know who he is, assuming he is a he."
Peter Miller frowned, but remained silent. Lockner would give him a full report, and he was patient.
"The code name itself is a curiosity. It may or may not be significant. It could be a phrase generated at random by a computer, or it might be a handle selected by the agent himself, the way our fighter crews like to use personality traits or personal skills to identify themselves. It could be significant; the individual may very well be alone in the sense that he or she has no one in whom to confide."
Lockner sorted more papers, then continued.
"We found reference to a popular song with the title Mr. Lonely that goes back to the mid Twentieth Century. It's now a Twentieth Century Classical favorite, if you care for that sort of music. Personally, I don't. The song was rerecorded in the 20s by a group calling themselves Lightbeam and the Lasers. What's interesting about the song is that it's about a soldier who finds himself far from home. He calls himself Mister Lonely."
Peter Miller's eyes narrowed. "Our leak probably considers himself a soldier. A patriot."
"No doubt. And he may have been here for quite some time."
"Do you have any leads?"
"We've run massive data scans in a number of areas. There are no fighter pilots or military personnel of any kind on record who use the call sign Mister Lonely. We've come across several entertainers who have sung that song at FSO shows, but none of them seems a likely candidate, as they have no direct access to any sensitive military data — but we're still checking.
"Using the Galactic Product Code, we compiled lists of all military personnel who've ever purchased the song Mr. Lonely, by any artist, either by itself or in a collection. We found several hundred matches."
Lockner stopped and locked gazes with Peter Miller.
"We're checking them all out, of course … "
"Yes?"
"The only one so far who might be of interest is General John Willard. Chief of Staff."
Peter Miller's mouth felt suddenly dry.
"Jesus Christ!" was all he said.
Fleet Base 21, Alpha 2, Alpha Centauri System
Rico was actually walking, though with some degree of pain. The physical therapy was brutal but effective, and his prognosis to rejoin his unit was now less than a month.
He settled into his hoverchair, out of breath and sweating. Except for the twinges that ran down both legs, he felt pretty good. Those would go away in a few minutes, and he would go for another stroll. Even though it meant going back to Delta Company, he was determined to get out of the hospital as quickly as possible. He hated being an invalid.
He'd received a communication a few days earlier. Mt. Tamalaya had been taken, though at a considerable cost. Delta had spearheaded the assault, and though nearly fifty men had been lost, only one man from his squad — one of the replacements — had been killed. Rico was anxious to get back, to hear the abusive profanity of the Fearless Fourless, Roberson's Bible-thumping, and see Jeff White's wide grin.
He might even see Lupe again.
He'd just about made up his mind to get up and put himself through another half-hour walk when Capt. Ferracci breezed into his room and stood looking down at him. His heart raced at the sight of her — she was in a dress uniform, her long black hair brushed and gleaming, a sexy smile on her face.
"Hi, doc!" he grinned, and stood up immediately. He saluted, holding himself at attention for ten painful seconds, until she acknowledged him with a salute of her own.
"That's amazing!" she breathed. "How long have you been walking?"
"Couple of days. I'll be outta here pretty soon."
Her coal-black eyes fixed on his as her smile faded slightly.
"That's wonderful," she said quietly. Then she took his arm. "How would you like to take a walk with me?"
"Where to?"
"Outside."
"What for?"
"Therapy. Come on."
His back was already complaining, and he felt sweat preparing to pop out on his forehead. But she held his arm firmly, and her perfume was making his heart beat even faster. He wasn't about to turn her down.
She led him through the doorway and down the corridor to the lift, holding onto him as if he might break. They emerged on the first floor and she headed him toward the door, out into the daylight. Alpha Prime was high in the sky.
"Where to, doc?" he asked, clenching his teeth as the pressure on his spine intensified.
"This way."
With no further explanation, she propelled him slowly but steadily toward a military hovercar parked twenty yards away. When they re
ached it she opened the door for him and helped him sit down. The release of pressure on his back was far more of a relief than he wanted her to know. He released his breath noisily, then forced a grin. Without a word, she rounded the vehicle and slid into the pilot's seat. Seconds later the turbine was spinning and the car lifted off.
"Doc, where the hell are you taking me?" Rico asked, puzzled.
"I thought you might like a change of scenery," she said.
They cleared the gate with no trouble, the Infantry sentries saluting her on the way out. She turned right and cut across country, ignoring the roads as she crossed the river into the city. Rico became more perplexed as the minutes passed, but the beautiful pilot said nothing more. Very shortly they were mingling with civilian hover traffic, and Rico looked down at towering buildings that appeared untouched by the war. She settled onto the roof of a building that proclaimed itself the Cachet Hotel, and once down she helped him out of the hovercar.
"Am I being kidnapped?" he grinned.
The look she gave him was deadly serious, with no hint of a smile. She didn't answer.
Instead she took him down the lift to the top floor of the hotel, pressed her palm print on the security plate outside a room, and the door slid open. Rico limped inside with growing excitement, his mouth suddenly dry. The room was spacious and beautiful, almost as large as a suite. A pine thicket along one side featured a running stream with grazing holo-animals. The air smelled as fresh as a Colorado spring morning. The hoverbed was big enough to sleep six.
Rico turned and stared at the battle surgeon with questions in his eyes. She hadn't said a word since they arrived, and after locking the door she walked slowly toward him, her beautiful black eyes never leaving his face. She stopped three feet away.
"What's going on, doc?" he asked breathlessly.
"I could get a star-court for this," she said solemnly. "And so could you."
"I guess we're takin' a pretty big chance then, huh?"
"Yes, we are. If you want to leave, tell me now."
He shook his head slowly. The pain in his back was forgotten.
She began to unbutton his fatigue shirt.
"If anyone asks," she told him, "I brought you into the city for a medical exam."
He nodded, bending his head to watch her long fingers at work. She slipped off his shirt, pulled his sweatshirt over his head, and reached for his belt. He felt his knees turn to jelly. His pants fell to the floor, and she took his arm to steady him as he stepped out of them. He now wore only the hospital slippers and his general issue underwear, which did nothing to hide the erection that pulsed beneath it. She placed her hand under his crotch and pressed lightly, sending shivers through him.
"Doc," he panted, "I hope I can do this. My back still hurts some … "
"I'll be gentle with you," she told him.
He sat down on the hoverbed and watched as she undressed. She took her time about it, deliberately making him wait. His eyes almost bulged as he watched her reveal herself inch by inch, his heart racing ever faster as the minutes dragged by. When she finally approached him, he thought he'd never seen a finer example of feminine perfection. She was lean and sinewy, her waist so narrow he could almost encircle it with his fingers, her breasts so full and fine that he could suffocate between them and enjoy doing it. Her skin was the same dark olive all over, her long hair shiny black and stunning.
She sat astraddle him and lowered herself slowly. Rico almost died from the physical sensations that shivered through him like a hard chill, and when she was fully seated she leaned forward and placed her hands flat on his chest. He lay with his back firmly supported and let her do all the work, and she was masterful at it. Even better than Lupe, who was the best he'd ever experienced. When he climaxed, it seemed all his organs shifted inside him, and he thought his manhood had exploded.
After his intense shuddering had dissipated and he lay drawing oxygen into his lungs, she stretched out on top of him, pressing her lips against his cheeks. She hadn't disengaged yet, and he thought that if he ever had to die, it should happen at a moment like this. Her full red lips walked across his face, leaving lipstick tracks, then locked onto his mouth. He felt the velvet of her tongue as it probed him. He slid his arms around her shoulders and pulled her firmly down onto him, glorying in the fullness of her breasts against his chest.
After ten minutes of kissing, she slid off and lay next to him, silent. His arm still encircled her neck, her thick black hair teasing his shoulder.
"Why did you do this, doc?" he asked after a time.
"Because I wanted to," she told him.
"Why did you want to?"
"My commanding officer told me to get laid."
He lifted his head to look at her, but she didn't smile. Her dark eyes looked surprisingly vulnerable as she stared back at him.
"You're kidding, right?" he grinned, unable to believe she might not be.
"No. He actually said that."
"I can't believe that's why you —"
"It isn't." She hesitated, as if deciding how much to admit to him. "Look, Rico, why do you care? I'm here, with you. By my own choice. Isn't that enough?"
He shrugged. "Yeah. I guess."
"How's your back?"
"Healed, I think. It's not hurting no more."
"You see? The therapy worked."
"Yeah. So how about some more?"
"Are you ready?" She reached for his groin to check. "I guess you are."
She returned him to the hospital two hours later, helping him back the way they'd come. To the casual observer, it was simply a case of an off-duty battle surgeon taking her patient out for a relaxing afternoon, nothing to raise any eyebrows. He settled into his hoverchair and sighed wearily.
"I think I'll sleep better tonight," he told her.
She smiled briefly and nodded. "So will I."
"You coming back tomorrow?"
"Do you want me to?"
"Oh, doc, yeah. Please!"
"Tomorrow you get into a dress uniform. I'll see you around thirteen hundred."
Without another word, she turned and walked out.
Tuesday, 23 February, 0230 (PCC) - Lucaston, Alpha 2, Alpha Centauri System
To Rico Martinez, it was like a dream. Except for the Fighter Queen, Capt. Ferracci was the most beautiful woman he'd ever seen. If he'd been given the choice, he would have preferred to sleep with the Italian — he was more comfortable with Latin women. For the second day in a row, she took him into the city and screwed his brains out.
This time he noticed something he'd missed the first time — she had been a perfect lover, driving him to the heights of desire and sating him completely, but — she hadn't climaxed. As they lay together afterward, he kissed her on the forehead and asked her why.
"Rico, you ask too many questions," she replied.
"I just wondered," he said. "I mean, am I doing something wrong?"
"No."
"Maybe I don't turn you on, then?"
"Would I be here if that were true?"
"I don't know. Would you?"
"Shut up, Rico. Some things you don't need to know."
He decided not to look a gift horse in the mouth. Instead he closed his eyes for a few moments — and was startled when she woke him. He sat up and looked around, disoriented.
"Jesus, Captain! It's dark outside!"
She stared at his expression for ten seconds.
"We're going to spend the night here," she said.
"But — shit! Won't we be in trouble?"
"No. I checked you out of the hospital. You're technically on a pass."
"Can you do that?"
"I already did it. That's why you wore a dress uniform."
He relaxed a little. She seemed to know what she was doing … he hoped.
"When do I go back?"
"Tomorrow night. I convinced my supervisor that you were ready for emotional therapy. And since I'm on a three-day pass, I volunteered to escort you. That wa
y I have a Star Marine escort, and I don't feel nervous about doing some local sightseeing."
"Some escort I am! If anything came up, I wouldn't be much good to you."
"Your recovery is coming along nicely. Anyway, it's all covered under professional ethics. As long as nobody sees us using the same room." She still hadn't smiled at him.
"You've done this before?"
"No, but I know the rules. I'm very careful about rules." She took his arm and pulled him to his feet. "Get up and get dressed. I'm hungry."
He frowned. "Where we going to eat?"
"There's a nice restaurant downstairs."
For the benefit of any who might see them, they left the room five minutes apart, Carla going first. When Rico reached the lobby she greeted him with a warm smile as if she had just arrived, asked how he was feeling, then took his arm as they entered the restaurant. No other military uniforms were visible and they enjoyed a quiet dinner, feasting on food that was far superior to what they usually ate. Alpha 2 was experiencing some shortages because of the war, but there was no evidence of it here.
After dinner they took a stroll through city streets, enjoying the warm evening with its variety of scents and sounds. Due to the war, the city was largely blacked out, with none of the skyholos one would normally expect to see, and civilian traffic was curtailed due to the curfew, but it was still nice to just walk about as if everything were normal. They didn't talk much, for Rico was feeling some pain and Carla didn't seem anxious to talk in any case. After an hour they returned to the hotel.
He lay down on the bed to rest his back. Carla adjusted the controls to put him into a reclining position, then poured him a glass of liquor, something local that he didn't recognize. It was tasty and mellow, but carried a kick.
"Only one," she warned him. "Doctor's orders."
He sipped it slowly, watching her. He was growing more puzzled by the hour.
"You give this kind of therapy to all your patients?" he asked.
"No."
She sat down next to the bed with her own drink. She seemed to spend a lot of time just staring at him.
"You really got me curious, Captain."
"Curiosity won't kill you."
"Why are you doing this?"
"Because I want to."
"You said that yesterday."
