by John Bowers
Angela was startled. "Thank you." She blushed.
An awkward silence followed. Angela sat near Rico while Carla sipped the coffee. Johnny perched on a stool near the holovid, staring openly at the beautiful female officer, fascinated by anyone in uniform.
"How long is your leave?" Rico asked eventually.
"Only a week."
His eyes widened. "Are you gonna go home to Italy?"
She shrugged uneasily.
"I haven't decided. I … wanted to come here first. To — to see how you were doing."
Angela looked at her brother in wonder, realization dawning on her. He hadn't said a word about this woman since he arrived. He caught her look and blushed slightly, turning even darker than normal. She smiled at Carla.
"I hope you'll excuse me," she said, "but Johnny's supposed to spend the night with his grandparents. I have to run him over there. I'll be gone a couple of hours at least."
"Please, do what you have to do. I don't want to disrupt any of your plans."
Still smiling, Angela stood quickly and grabbed the keys to her hovercar.
"Come on, Juanito, time to go."
"Where we going?" Johnny protested.
"Your grandmother is expecting you."
"No she isn't!"
Angela dragged him out the door and a minute later Rico heard her hovercar back into the street and lift off. He looked at Carla and they burst out laughing.
"You have to excuse my sister," he told her. "She never quite learned how to be diplomatic."
"She gave it a good try," Carla said.
Then they were in each other's arms, kissing desperately, as if trying to resuscitate one another. Breathless, groping, Rico pulled her into his bedroom and locked the door. He'd never felt so urgent in his life, for it seemed she might disappear if he took his hands off her. But she had no intention of going anywhere, and the minute her uniform was off they joined, a glorious union of bodies in the darkness of the Colorado night. It ended far too quickly for Rico's satisfaction, but even so they were both winded.
"How long before you go to Italy?" he whispered as they lay recovering afterward.
"I'm not going to Italy," she admitted, "unless you don't want me to stay."
"Please don't go to Italy," he said. "Stay here."
"Are you sure?"
"Does the Pope shit in the woods? Of course I'm sure."
"What about your sister?"
"She'll keep out of the way. You saw what she just did."
"Are you sure I won't embarrass her?"
"No way. She lost Juanito's father in the war. She understands what it's all about."
"What about your nephew? Should he see us together like this?"
"He can spend a few days with his grandparents. I'll still have two more weeks with him."
She pinned him with her dark eyes.
"Are you sure about this?"
"Yes. God, Carla! I can't believe you're really here! It's a dream come true!"
"What about all your other girlfriends?"
"Bullshit! You're teasing me now! You're all I got, all I ever want."
She kissed him warmly again, hugging him close.
"Promise me you'll stay?" he begged.
"Of course I'll stay."
* * *
It was the shortest week of their lives. Days were spent seeing the sights, having fun, and generally trying to forget about the war. Rico took her to a solarball game one day, another day Angela arranged a tour of the Lincoln fighter plant, guided by Oliver Lincoln III himself. On yet another day they simply went fishing. They dined, they danced, each day an entity unto itself, a disconnected lifetime of idyllic existence. Nights were spent making love, slowly and ecstatically, exploring each other in thrilling leisure.
It was the most fun Carla could ever remember, and as the days and nights flashed by she realized that her ghosts were falling behind. Rico knew nothing of her past, but as Carson had predicted, his attentions activated a healing process. Some time during the fourth night of lovemaking, Carla climaxed for the first time, and afterward she sobbed helplessly while a confused Rico held her tenderly, patiently. When she'd flushed the emotion from her soul, she kissed him hungrily, with more passion than she'd ever shown before.
"Rico, amore!" she murmured. "How I love you!"
He gazed into her ebony eyes with wonder in his own. His very skin tingled.
"Do you mean that?" he asked.
"Every syllable," she said. "I love you, Rico. You're the finest man I have ever met."
"Querida!" he whispered. "You are the most beautiful woman in the galaxy. I will love you forever!"
"Don't love me forever," she said. "Just love me tonight. And again tomorrow night. And every night after that. One night at a time, until we get to forever."
"I can do that," he promised. "I can do that."
Chapter 46
Wednesday, 11 April, 0232 (PCC) - Washington City, DC, North America, Terra
Far more than Henry Wells had expected, the office of President was strictly symbolic. Real leadership, real decisions, were made at lower levels, with only the most critical ever reaching his desk for a signature. The Federation was so vast, so multi-tiered, that one man couldn't possibly oversee it. He was kept abreast of major developments and trends in daily briefings, and when he was required to deliver a speech much of it was written for him.
His cabinet was also multi-tiered. There were departments for everything; one for each major continent, one for each non-terrestrial world; departments for education, trade, economy, ecology, law enforcement, agriculture, transportation, communications, and a host of others. Most of these cabinet posts made the real-time decisions that kept the Federation running on a daily basis, and Henry realized after only a few weeks in office that he had wielded far more power as a senator than he ever would as President.
The most critical agency was the Department of Defense, also known as the War Department. For as long as the Sirian crisis should last, Henry wanted to know everything that went on. He'd left many cabinet members in office from the previous administration, but for this one he wanted someone he knew he could trust. As Secretary of Defense, he appointed his old friend from the Senate, Lester Rice.
Secretary Rice entered the oval office promptly at three o'clock for the daily briefing. Henry poured them each a shot of scotch and they sat down across a coffee table from each other. Rice looked worried, as always. He gulped the shot down and returned the empty glass to the table.
"Bad news, Les?" Henry smiled. One advantage of putting Rice in the job might be to let him see that things weren't quite as bad as he seemed to believe. He had access to far more information now than either of them ever had in the past.
"Not really," Rice said. "It's just the constant hassle every day. I'm not sure I appreciate this appointment. I've got people all over me all the time. The Senate was a picnic in comparison."
"Good. You need to keep your mind occupied. Do you still think we're losing the war?"
Rice grinned a little, and shook his head.
"Actually, we're in pretty good shape. The Sirians could still beat us, but the Alpha Centauri campaign went far better than I ever dreamed it would. And Altair was almost a no-brainer. Right now, we stand approximately even with the Confederacy. Either side would be justified in asking for a cease-fire. Just let the thing die right here."
Henry's face hardened, his good humor evaporating. He shook his head.
"There'll be no cease-fire," he said. "They started this thing, we're going to finish it."
"I wasn't suggesting that we ask them for a cease-fire," Rice replied quickly. "I just said …"
"I know what you meant. But even if they ask for a cease-fire, there isn't going to be one. I've been tracking these bastards for over thirty years. A cease-fire now just means another attack in ten or twenty years. They won't give up until we're beaten. We've got the armies now, and the hardware, and the public resolve. We're going to finish it before we l
ose that edge."
Rice stared at him a moment, arrested by the passion in his voice, which had risen dramatically. After a few seconds, Henry visibly relaxed.
"Sorry," he said. "I've been a little on edge myself. What've you got for me?"
Rice covered the details in less than twenty minutes. Little had changed since the briefing the day before. When he'd finished, Henry poured them one more shot and they relaxed over it.
"Has there been any progress on uncovering the leak?" Rice asked. "You know, any move we make from here on could be fatally compromised if we don't plug that damned thing."
Henry shook his head.
"No results yet. Miller is working on it, though. He's come up with a plan to narrow down the field. I think it may work."
"I sincerely hope so. We need to get our next military operation off the ground as soon as possible, and I want that leak plugged before we do."
"I agree completely."
"What's Gina been up to? Haven't seen her lately."
Henry smiled wryly, and shrugged.
"We don't see her much, either. Since the inauguration she's hardly even called. The Polygon has her working in some basement somewhere. I have no idea what she's doing."
"That information video was a work of art," Rice said admiringly. "I'm sure they can find some use for her talents."
"Yes, they're very good at that."
Wallace Plantation, Texiana, Sirius 1
General Field Marshal Martin Vaughn was busier than ever. Scarlett barely saw him once a day, and when it appeared that his schedule wasn't going to improve any time soon, she decided to return to the country for a few days. Capt. Davenport piloted the hovercar and they returned to the quieter, gentler life on the plantation. Sirian Summer was just starting, and the city was no place to be during that hellish period. Sirian Summer always set everyone's nerves on edge.
Regina was becoming frustrated anyway. The mission was taking far longer than she'd hoped; often weeks or months would pass between tidbits of reportable data. The constant strain of living as Scarlett Wallace, even with hypnotechnology, was taking its toll. She waited until the house had settled down for the night. Daylight still burned brightly outside, but it was almost midnight when she let herself into Davenport's room.
He lay on his side in the hoverbed, naked under a sheet. She approached him softly, hoping he wasn't asleep. As she reached the bed and leaned across it, he raised his arm toward her; the sheet slid aside and she found herself looking at the business end of his laser pistol. She gasped and jerked upright, her heart lurching.
Davenport sat up slowly, still pointing the weapon at her.
"Don't ever try to sneak up on the SE," he told her seriously. "Knock and announce yourself next time."
"I'm sorry!" she panted, as he lowered the pistol and laid it aside. Then, as the shock of the moment passed, her face flushed. "You had to know it was me!" she snapped. "Why did you have to scare me like that?"
"I was asleep."
She swallowed down her anger, wanting to rail at him, but feeling unjustified.
"Did you want something?" he asked innocently.
"I did, but I'm not so sure any more!"
"Tell me what it was. Maybe I can help you out."
She stared at him, her green eyes flashing. Was he teasing her?
"I was just wondering if you're as horny as I am," she said.
"Like a goat. Since you put the serfs off limits, I'm just one big tube of testosterone."
She blinked at him.
"Martin not keeping you happy?" he asked.
"Martin's never around much, and when he is he's always in a hurry."
"You should've said something sooner."
"I don't dare when we're in the city. He could walk in at any time."
Davenport swung his legs over the side of the hoverbed and walked toward her. Her eyes widened as she saw just how horny he was.
"This doesn't mean I'm in love with you," she warned as he began pulling off her dress.
"I know."
"I don't even like you very much."
"I understand."
"You're a callous, boorish, cold-blooded son of a bitch. And you're a rapist, too."
He swung her around, nude, and dumped her in the middle of his bed.
"You already told me all that."
He covered her and locked onto her mouth. Her arms encircled his neck and he entered her eagerly; she whimpered and rose to meet him, then conversation was impossible as they shut down their minds and let their bodies do the talking.
In the basement, the serf girl Kim watched them on a tiny monitor, her lovely almond eyes growing round with amazement at the sight. She'd known about the video system for years, had discovered it while playing in the attic as a child. It had been in place since the house was built, but hadn't been used for decades. During Scarlett's prolonged absences to the city, Kim had had plenty of time to tinker with it and figure out how it worked. Video pickups were hidden in every room in the house. The casual observer would never know they were there.
Kim had carried the monitor to her basement room, along with a chip-recording device. She hated Davenport more than any man alive, and after discovering that night in the garden that he was actually a Feddie, had seen a way to get her revenge. The only problem was, who was going to take the word of a serf girl? So she'd activated the video system, hoping to get proof. She hadn't expected this, however. Davenport and Miss Scarlett, in bed together? General Field Marshal Vaughn would have Davenport's hide hanging above his fireplace!
Kim smiled her gratification. Davenport would pay. She wouldn't deliver this evidence until she had the rest — she'd get proof that he was a Feddie, and then she would see him put to death.
It never occurred to her what might happen to Miss Scarlett.
Friday, 13 April, 0232 (PCC) - Washington City, DC, North America, Terra
The holo-fax machine hummed briefly for thirty seconds and then a chime sounded. The fax message was coded, and required operator attention before anything would print. The distinguished gentleman behind the desk swung around and keyed in the appropriate combination, then pressed the DECODE button. Seconds later he held a single sheet of paper in his hand with the unscrambled memo on it.
The distinguished gentleman pressed a button beside his desk that turned on the E-shield, then read the memo, mulling it over curiously.
TOP SECRET
Federation Intelligence Agency
Memorandum #avI-004439-86.1
13 April, 0232
For your information only: the scheduled commission date for fleet carrier CZ-14, to be commissioned as UFF George Bush, has been advanced from 1 March 0233 to 1 November 0232. This vessel will therefore be available for inclusion in the upcoming fleet operation against Vega 3. Please consider this data when planning the invasion schedule.
That was all. The distinguished gentleman stared at it for a long time, a frown creasing his forehead above bushy brows. He dropped the memo into his lap and stared sightlessly out the window for several minutes. Finally he read the memo again, then laid it on the desk.
He turned to his safe and keyed in the unscramble code. Reaching inside, he drew out a file box, where he kept his confidential memos, and withdrew one he'd received four days earlier. This one was from the Polygon fleet construction office. He frowned at it as he made sure his memory served him correctly.
This is to advise you that construction on CZ-14 has fallen three weeks behind schedule due to the lack of available merchant transport during the Alpha Centauri operation. Scheduled commission date is now estimated at 1 April 0233, or later.
The distinguished gentleman replaced the memo in the file box, added the new one to it, and placed the box back in his safe. With narrowed eyes, he peered out the window again.
"This is all wrong," he muttered to himself. "What the hell is going on here?"
In the background, faintly audible, was his favorite song, Mr. Lonely.
Monday, 16 April, 0232 (PCC) - Polygon, Washington City, DC, North America, Terra
"Ladies and gentlemen, we are going to invade Beta Centauri!"
General John Willard swept the Strategy Room with his eagle eyes as if daring anyone to contradict him. No one did, all eyes on the holomap he'd just activated.
"We're going to pull another fast one on them," he said, unable to keep the eagerness out of his voice. "We're gonna make a feint against Vega, let them think we want to bypass Beta, and then we're going for the throat."
He touched a control and the picture changed, showing an overhead view of a small area of Beta Centauri. It looked like a coastal city, sitting on the edge of a bay and ringed by mountain peaks. To Wade Palmer it looked like a natural fortress; offshore islands that couldn't be more than two miles distant dominated the mouth of the bay. The city itself was about the size of San Francisco, though the layout was different.
"This is the seat of Confederate power on Beta Centauri," Willard was saying. "I think we learned something important on Alpha 2, which is that if we capture an important enough objective, enemy morale will suffer accordingly. This, ladies and gentlemen, is the nerve center of the entire planet. I believe that if we kill the head, the body will die."
He scanned the room again, watching for reaction. Still no one spoke.
"Our next invasion," he said dramatically, "will start right here. The name of the place is Periscope Harbor."
Chapter 47
Tuesday, 17 April, 0232 (PCC) - Polygon, Washington City, DC, North America, Terra
Beta Centauri 2 was a small planet in terms of landmass. Nearly ninety percent of the planet was covered by ocean, with only one continent of any size and multitudes of island chains. Periscope Harbor, Wade Palmer already knew from several weeks of study prior to Willard's announcement, was located on the eastern end of the continent, a natural seaport on a planet that needed few seaports. Its topography made it a natural location for a headquarters.
The coast was composed of a series of mountain ridges that jutted almost nine thousand feet above sea level. In the middle of those ranges, sitting in a depression that looked as if a giant had stepped on the peaks and flattened them all the way down to the water, was Periscope Harbor. The city was nine miles wide and six deep. No highways had been cut through the mountains to access it; all transport in or out of the city was by air, sea, or tube.
