by Rick Partlow
Taking in as deep a breath as he could without doubling over in agony, Jason brought the machine gun to high port and swung around through the doorway, finger already squeezing the trigger. A scream of rage and desperation exploded from him as he fought with the weapon to keep the muzzle from rising, a flare of gunpowder ripping through the air.
The machine gun bucked hard against his shoulder, sunlight winking off the brass of the spent cases as they flew over his head in a slow-motion dance. McKay could see with paranormal clarity each slug that impacted the armored troopers, see the way the armor-piercing rounds punched through their chestplates and helmets, see the way they jerked backwards with a strange, unnatural motion like the robot mannequins in a store display---not as if they weren't alive, but more as if they didn't feel the pain of the wounds and were only reacting to the physical damage of the bullets.
A small part of Jason's mind wondered why they reacted that way...and why his finger stayed frozen in a death-squeeze on the trigger once all of the Invaders were bloody heaps on the ground, and why he didn't let up on it even after the machine gun's bolt locked open empty in a bluish cordite cloud, and why he was still screaming hoarsely at the dead emptiness of the street, and why his arms didn't seem to have any strength anymore, and why the gun was clattering to the pavement when he couldn't remember letting go of it, and why everything seemed to be spinning around and sinking into a haze of darkness as the road rose quickly up to meet his face...
Awash in a sea of mist, Jason came to brief clarity in the middle of a fever dream. Invader troopers stood over him, surrounding him, and he knew he was dead. But why would enemy troopers be wearing grey Marine armor? Then he saw the ugly, heavy-browed face of his old Drill Instructor staring down at him grimly, and he knew it must be a dream.
"He's alive," the man mouthed in a rumbling bass that was not his own voice. "Get him up."
A wave of agony washed over him and consciousness fled once more, the blackness covering him as he had one last, disjointed thought of Shannon.
Chapter Twelve
"The stellar universe is not so difficult of comprehension as the real actions of other people, especially of the people with whom we are in love."---Marcel Proust.
Shannon grinned playfully at Nathan, both of them still panting with effort. "Don’t try to tell me you learned that in ninja school."
"All work and no play makes Nathan a dull bodyguard." Tanaka leaned back into the pillow, looking more relaxed than Shannon thought she had seen him since they’d met. She had to chuckle at the way a lock of his coal-dark hair was standing straight up at the top of his head; he looked more like a middle manager in an electronics firm than a trained assassin.
The room was cool and dark, and Stark felt a shiver run through her from the perspiration condensing on her bare skin. She pulled the blanket up around her shoulders and huddled beneath it. She could feel Nathan's bodily warmth beside her, but not a centimeter of his skin touched hers, as if they'd been sparring and he'd carefully retreated to a neutral corner. Not that it had seemed impersonal, or cold: their lovemaking had been surprisingly friendly, as if they'd been old lovers who'd run into each other on the street and slipped into bed once more for old time's sake. But Tanaka was a man who'd been alone for a long time, and that had created barriers that one moment of tenderness wasn't about to penetrate.
But beyond that friendliness and familiarity, she'd also felt something she'd never experienced before in connection with sex: guilt. It seemed so strange. Had Jason gotten to her that badly? She shook her head, deciding the question wasn't worth dwelling on until she knew whether McKay was still alive. She'd never been one to agonize over things beyond her control.
"What are you thinking about?" Tanaka asked curiously, leaning over to look her in the eye.
"I was just wondering," she lied, "whether you had any energy left after that stellar performance?"
"Of course," he said confidently, one finger carefully tracing the soft skin of her shoulder as if she were a piece of fine china. "All the members of my clan have been trained to draw on their ki, their inner, spiritual strength in just such occasions as this."
"Sounds like a load of mystical Asian bullshit to me." She cocked a skeptical eyebrow, taking a playful peek under the sheets.
"Are you questioning the teachings of my clan?" he protested with mock indignation, pulling the linen barrier back over his privates. "How can I respond to such doubt?"
"Prove it," she challenged, her right hand grasping him roughly. "Right now."
"Ah, a women after my own heart." Nathan rolled on top of her, arms enfolding her as an involuntary gasp escaping from her lips.
"Lieutenant Stark!" A violent pounding on the door accompanied the insistent voice of Jock Gregory. "Lieutenant Stark, are you in there?"
Nathan raised up, propping himself on one elbow and staring at the door in disgust.
"I could kill him and be back in bed in five seconds," he offered, only half joking.
"Duty calls," Shannon sighed, patting him on the shoulder as she hopped out of the bed, reaching for her clothes.
"Duty," Nathan repeated, rolling resignedly onto his back. "I should really learn to keep my advice to myself."
"Lieutenant Stark?" Jock called again, knocking persistently.
"Just a minute," Shannon called, quickly slipping into the first clothes that came to hand---the shorts and T-shirt she'd removed so hastily earlier in the evening. Pulling the door open a crack, she found Jock standing in the hall, shifting from one foot to another like an eager child bursting with some important secret. "This had better be important, Jock," she intoned, fixing him with an annoyed stare.
"Ma'am," he said, a grin nearly exploding on his face, "there's something you just gotta see."
"Jock, I really don't like surprises."
"You've gotta come with me, Ma'am," he insisted, still fidgeting excitedly. "Please, just trust me, you've got to see this!"
"All right, all right." She rubbed a hand tiredly across her eyes, suddenly feeling the aggregate fatigue from the lack of sleep, her martial arts workout and her and Nathan's lovemaking. "But this had better be good."
She slipped carefully through the half-open door, not wanting to provide grist for the enlisted rumor mill, then quickly shut it behind her as she joined Jock in the dimly-lit hallway.
"What the hell's going on out here?" Stark and Mahoney spun at the voice of Glen Mulrooney as he emerged from another of the small bedrooms, dressed only in boxer shorts, blinking groggily.
"You should come with us, too, Mr. Mulrooney." Jock grabbed him by the shoulder, pulling him into the corridor. "Come on, you're going to want to see this!"
So they moved down through the shelter's guest quarters, picking up Captain Trang along the way, like some kind of insomniac Conga line. The control center was dark and unoccupied, but Jock didn't slow down to turn on the lights, ignoring Mulrooney's pained curses as he stubbed his toe on a chair.
Shannon could see the lights and hear the activity in the entrance bay even before they reached the double-doors that led into it, and something deep in her gut began whispering a suspicion that made her heart beat quicker.
Then Jock pushed those doors open, revealing Shannon's little voice as prophetic. Parked in the jarringly empty space that had once held the Marines' scout car and APC was a beat-up, dirt-coated utility rover, its windshield splintered and webbed with cracks and bulletholes, its body panels dented and scratched. Gathered around the car were a group of combat-suited Marines, their helmets tucked under arms or dangling from the barrels of their rifles. For a moment, Shannon was confused, her tired brain wondering how there could have been any more Marines on the planet---she had a brief notion that they'd been rescued. Then one of the men turned and his ebon skin and chiseled features came into focus.
"Gunny Lambert!" she blurted, her eyes wide with disbelief. She was frozen in her tracks, stunned at the sight of the big Marine, at all of them clustere
d around the open doors of the car, the whole team which had been in the APC she'd seen destroyed. All except Bobby Comstock, the driver.
"Howdy, ma'am," the big man said with a face-splitting grin. "Fancy meeting you here."
"But how?" Shannon shook her head.
"That stupid heroic bastard Comstock," Lambert explained, expression sobering. "He kicked us all out of the car and took it out to decoy their fire. Saved us all. We had to hike back into Kennedy during the night, sleep during the day."
"Where'd you find the car?" Shannon wondered, eyes travelling over the vehicle and seeing, for the first time, a slight Hispanic woman that she recognized as Carmella Mendoza, leaning against the car, her children huddled against her. "And where did you find them?"
"Well," Lambert drawled, the smile finding its way back onto his face, "we happened to run into a few friends in the city."
Feeling a sudden sense of urgency, Shannon pushed through the crowd of bodies that separated her from the open side doors of the vehicle, not seeing the knowing looks from the Marines as they moved out of her way. Sitting in the front seat of the rover was Valerie O'Keefe, her clothes torn and soiled, her eyes vacant and seemingly oblivious to everything around her. Shannon barely noticed the woman. Her attention was focussed on the car's other occupant. Propped up in the back seat, his shirt stripped away, his torso wrapped tightly in a red-stained field bandage, was Jason McKay. Her breath caught at the sight of the wound, and she thought for a moment that he was unconscious, but his eyes fluttered open and his head came up, a smile struggling its way onto his face.
"You..." he whispered hoarsely, trying to work some moisture into his mouth. "You're beautiful."
"Flattery will get you nowhere, Lieutenant." The light tone of her words was betrayed by the break in her voice as she slid into the back seat beside him. "Are you okay?" She brushed a sweat-matted lock of hair out of his eyes as she ran her fingers gently over the bandage on his side.
"He'll be fine," Sergeant Lambert assured her. "It was a clean, through-and-through wound, and we caught it before he lost too much blood. He may have a cracked rib or two, but nothing a Marine can't shake off."
"You should have seen it ma'am," one of the troopers declared---she thought it was Clarke, the autogunner. "There was dead Gomers piled up around him so thick you could of walked on 'em. He stood his ground, bullet in him and all, and chopped 'em down one after another."
"Semper Fi, sir," Vinnie grunted proudly.
"Valerie!" Shannon heard Glen Mulrooney's astonished voice, and twisted around to see the man rushing up to the rover's side door.
"Oh, my God, Valerie!" Glen pulled her out of the car and into his arms, rocking her back and forth like an infant, tears streaming down his cheeks. "Oh, God, honey! I thought you were dead!"
"Glen?" She shook herself, as if waking from a dream, finally seemed to realize where she was.
"Yes, honey, it's me,” he assured her, holding her out to arm's length. "Are you all right, Val? My God, what happened to you?" He glanced from her to Jason, his face clouding over. "Did you let something happen to her?"
"No, Glen." Valerie put a hand on his arm, her voice stronger, her eyes on Jason. "I'm okay, I swear. We were attacked at Jorge and Carmella's house---Jorge was killed, but Jason--- Lieutenant McKay protected me."
"Oh." Glen visibly calmed down. "Uh, well, thank you, Lieutenant," he nodded to McKay, obviously embarrassed. "I'm sorry."
Shannon shot a glance at Jock Mahoney. "Help me get him up."
The enlisted man moved forward and helped Shannon carefully slide Jason out of the car, each of them getting beneath a shoulder and supporting him as he slowly and painfully got to his feet.
"Crossman." Shannon turned to the Tech-2, who was loitering near the back of the room in his neon-green shorts, arm around the girl who'd accompanied him from the Governor's mansion. "Take care of Ms. Mendoza and her children. Make sure they have a place to sleep and something to eat, if they need it."
"Sure thing, ma'am," he replied, tossing her a salute. He turned to the Hispanic girl beside him, still wearing his borrowed shirt but at least now supplementing it with a pair of borrowed shorts. "Rosalita, why don't you take them to freshen up and I'll get them some food?"
"Si, Thomas," she said, going over to Carmella and taking her hand, speaking to her in soft, comforting tones.
"Where to?" Jock asked Shannon, effortlessly carrying Jason through the garage, heading for the corridor leading back into the shelter.
"My room," she told him and then looked up to see Nathan Tanaka standing just inside the door, arms folded, observing impassively. She froze, eyes locked with his, each reading in the other a hint of disappointment and a wealth of understanding.
"Lieutenant McKay." Tanaka stepped forward, blocking their way.
"Yeah?" Jason grunted, eyes squinting in confusion.
"You have my deepest gratitude for safeguarding Ms. O'Keefe," Nathan told him, executing a sharp, shallow bow. "I am in your debt."
"It's my job," McKay muttered. Behind him, still cradled in Glen's arms, Valerie's head snapped up, her desensitized expression sharpening into something between anger and pain.
"As you say." Tanaka stepped out of their way.
Shannon didn't glance back at him as she helped Jock carry Jason down the hallway, but she could still see the bittersweet disillusionment in the bodyguard's expression.
Damn, she thought. I've already felt guilty twice today, and I'm not even Catholic.
***
Jason lifted slowly from a fuzzy darkness, only gradually aware of an irritating itch in his side and a cool, pleasant sensation on his chest. He opened his eyes cautiously, but the lights were dimmed and it took only a moment for his vision to adjust, and for the light-colored blur above him to solidify into Shannon Stark.
"So you're finally awake." She smiled, squeezing out the wet cloth with which she'd been bathing him.
"How long..." he began to ask, but the words caught in a ball of cotton deep in his throat and died with a dry croak. Shannon handed him a cup of water and he gulped at it gratefully, took a deep breath before he was ready to attempt conversation again. "How long have I been out?" he finally finished the question.
"Oh, about..." She checked her wristwatch. "Fifty-six hours."
"Jee-sus!" His eyes popped open wide and he sat up suddenly, surprised that the sudden movement didn't cause him more pain. "Two days?"
She pushed him back gently. "Take it easy. The Marine medic says you had a classic case of emotional and physical exhaustion, compounded by loss of blood and a lingering concussion. They've got a Smart Bandage on you now," she nodded at the black plastic patch adhered to his wound, "but you've got to stay off your feet and let it work for a couple days."
"Never liked the idea," he grumbled, grimacing at the bandage, "of an army of little genetic goblins chewing at my insides."
"Aren't you the throwback?" Shannon laughed, using the damp cloth to swab at his forehead. "I don't believe I've ever heard medical nanotech called 'goblins' before. Anyway, the bacteria will have the muscle grafted back together soon, and you should be on your feet in no time."
"Is..." He hesitated. "Are the others all right?"
"I haven't seen Ms. O'Keefe," Shannon told him, "but Mulrooney tells me she's fine, physically. She's probably still in shock emotionally. Carmella and her children are doing okay---I don't think the girls have stopped eating since they got here. But their father's death will hit them sooner or later."
"What about you?" Jason caught her eye.
"What about me?" She evaded his gaze, trying to concentrate on the sponge bath.
"Lambert told me what happened," he explained, covering her hands with his. "I was pretty groggy, but I got the gist of it. I guess maybe it's a little better now that you know some of them survived, but I know what it's like to watch troops die following your orders. It took me a long time to get my head right---I'm not even sure I have yet."
"I'm okay," she assured him. "I'm dealing with it. But thank you," she ran a hand affectionately over his cheek, "for thinking about me."
Jason thought he saw a moment's indecision behind her eyes, just before she leaned over to kiss him. It was just a chaste, friendly kiss at first, but then he was slipping his arms around her, ignoring the slight pain the motion caused in his side. She swung her legs onto the bed, getting a bit more comfortable and giving the kiss her full attention, her tongue flicking playfully between his lips.
"Why, Dr. Stark," Jason murmured, feeling her warm breath on his cheek. "What a marvelous bedside manner you have."
"Are you sure," she asked breathlessly, nibbling at his ear, "that you're up to this? I wouldn't want to reopen your wound."
"Shannon, darling," he said, guiding her hands beneath the covers, "I am definitely up to this."
Shannon tossed the blanket aside and Jason was suddenly aware that he was naked beneath it, his excitement visibly apparent. A wicked glint lit up Shannon’s emerald eyes as she quickly stripped off her T-shirt and shorts. Jason watched her undress, his breath catching at the way the soft glow of the ghostlights played over her tanned skin. She was the antithesis of Valerie---toned athleticism to Val's rounded softness---and he found the difference as arousing as the sight of her body.
Her lips parted slightly, her eyes filled with sexual hunger as she straddled his hips, guiding him into her and slowly, carefully sliding down the length of him. Jason moaned softly at the feel of her warm dampness gripping him and his hands went to her breasts as her back arched like a cat's, her head thrown back, eyes half-closed.
He tried to thrust himself upward, matching her movements, but had to wince from a sudden twinge of pain in his side. She put a hand on his chest, shaking her head.
