The Road to Damascus (bolo)

by John Ringo

  Simon Khrustinov followed her stare. “Sonny,” he said, addressing the immense machine, “you remember Miss Camar?”

  “Indeed I do, Simon. Good evening, Miss Camar. It is a pleasure to see you again. You look a great deal better.”

  She cleared her throat, awed by the sound of the Bolo’s metallic voice and startled by its comments. “Good evening. Thank you. I am better.”

  “I am pleased the bee-stings healed without scars,” the Bolo added. “I have studied the files posted on Jefferson’s planetary datanet detailing the habits and temperament of Asali bees. An excellent choice of weapon, under the circumstances. It is fortunate the swarm attacked the Deng, rather than you and your companions.”

  Kafari stared, astonished. “Well,” she managed after a moment, “they pretty much go after whatever’s closest to the hive, especially if it’s a moving target. Aisha and I were moving, but we weren’t close to the hives when they broke open. The Deng were. And once those swarms got loose, the Deng were moving a whole lot faster than we were.”

  It took a moment for Kafari to realize what the rusty, metallic sound issuing from the speakers was. It was the Bolo’s voice, chuckling. It sounded like a bucket full of rusted metal tossed down a steel stairway. She grinned, despite the prickle of gooseflesh. The Bolo had a sense of humor! Simon was grinning, too, openly delighted that she’d understood that gawdawful sound for what it was.

  “Okay, Sonny, enough chit-chat for now,” the officer said, smiling. “I promised to make dinner for Miss Camar.” The smile vanished as a darker thought moved visibly behind his eyes. “Check the news from Madison, please. There’s an ugly riot underway. I want to know when it’s been contained and who to see about giving eyewitness testimony.”

  When Kafari stiffened, he glanced into her eyes and shook his head slightly, reassuring her. “Your name won’t come into it. Mostly I want to know who the ringleaders were and what was behind it.”

  Kafari sighed. “I can tell you some of that. I stumbled into a big crowd. Two, maybe three hundred people. They were listening to a guy about my age. He was ranting about tuition hikes and government aid to rebuild farms, but not factories and shops. It didn’t make much sense, not with the urban restoration package President Lendan’s asked for, but the crowd was eating it up.” She shivered. “Some of them were students, but there were a lot of factory workers, too. Laborers thrown out of work, men in their thirties and forties. Those were the ones chasing me.”

  “And using racist vulgarities,” Simon added darkly. “Sonny, start paying attention to the chat boards on the datanet. I want to know a whole lot more about what’s going on, here. We won the war. I’d just as soon we didn’t lose the peace.”

  “Understood, Simon.”

  The Bolo fell ominously silent. Kafari shivered.

  “Let’s get you inside,” Simon said at once, escorting her across the walkway to his front door. He palmed the lock open, then switched on lights in his private quarters. The room was heartlessly plain, new enough he hadn’t had much time to decorate. The furniture was military issue, sturdy and functional, but not particularly fashionable. It didn’t matter. It was quiet and unbelievably safe, probably the safest spot on Jefferson, guarded by the Bolo’s guns. She started to relax. Simon turned on music, something strange and unfamiliar, hinting at far-away worlds Kafari could only dimly imagine. It was beautiful, soothing.

  “Can I get you something to drink while I start cooking? I’ve laid in a supply of local stuff. Ales, wines, some kind of tea that I can’t figure out what it’s made from, but I like it. Tastes kind of… tangy-sweet, like fruit with a kick. It’s great over ice.”

  Kafari smiled. “Sounds like felseh. That would be wonderful.”

  He poured two glasses from a pitcher in his refrigerator, then suggested she make herself comfortable in the living room. “Don’t be silly,” she said, downing half the glass in one thirsty gulp. “You do the steaks and I’ll do the veggies. What’ve you got?”

  He rummaged, came up with several bags of frozen stuff and even fresh corn flown in from the one of the farms in the southern hemisphere. The southern harvests were small, given the limited amount of recently terraformed acreage, but they provided fresh food for those able to afford it. Kafari smiled. “How about corn and a Klameth Canyon medley?”

  Simon grinned. “Sounds fabulous, whatever it is. I’ll light the grill.”

  He vanished through a rear door while Kafari found the disposal bin and shucked corn. She found pans, switched on the range, got things started, and poured more tea, downing it thirstily. She found ingredients for biscuits and whipped up a batch, then popped them into the oven. A bottle of red wine she discovered in the pantry would go well with steak. She opened it to breathe and set the table, which had been tucked into one corner of the kitchen. Simon’s quarters were small enough to be comfortable and convenient, large enough to avoid feeling cramped. The more she listened to his music, the more she liked it.

  He came in, sniffed appreciatively. “What’s that wonderful smell?”

  “Biscuits.”

  “I didn’t have any.”

  She grinned. “You do now.”

  “Wow! You can bake? From scratch?”

  She grinned. “Some farmer’s daughter I’d be, if I couldn’t.”

  “What else can you do? Besides kill Deng and rescue planetary heads of state and whip up a batch of biscuits?”

  She blushed. “Not a lot, I guess. I can hunt and fish and I know every game trail through this stretch of the Damisi. I can sew, sort of. Nothing fancy, but I can fix damage involving torn seams and I can make play clothes. Simple stuff. I’m pretty good at psychotronic programming,” she added. “Nothing as sophisticated as your Bolo, but I’m qualified to handle urban traffic-control systems, factory ’bots, mining equipment, high-tech ag engineering systems, that kind of thing.”

  “A lady with multiple talents.” Simon smiled, rescuing the steaks from a drawer in the refrigerator and dumping a bottle of some kind of marinade over them. He was stabbing the meat with a fork to let the sauce soak deep. Kafari wondered what the marinade was, since the bottle was a reusable one designed for something homemade, not a store-bought brand.

  “What about you?” she asked. “What else can you do, besides defend worlds, run a Bolo, rescue damsels in distress, and cook?”

  “Hmm… I like to read history, but I’m not what you’d call a historian. I tried learning to paint, when I was a kid, but I didn’t have much talent for it. Can’t hold a tune to save my backside, but I like music.” He grinned, suddenly and boyishly. “I can do a few Russian folk dances.”

  “Really?” Kafari was impressed. “All those knee-popping kicks and stuff?”

  He chuckled. “Yep. Even those. Mind you, it takes a bit of limbering up, but it’s fantastic exercise. Really gets the blood pumping. Do you dance?” he asked, tossing the marinade bottle into the sink and hunting up a long-handled spatula.

  “A little,” Kafari admitted, following him outside when he headed toward the grill. The night was lovely, the darkness intimate, the stars brilliant despite the lights from Nineveh Base. The steaks sizzled when Simon dropped them onto the grill. “I learned a couple of traditional African dances from Dad, and Grandma Soteris taught me some Greek dances when I was a kid. There are always big community dances and fairs, once the harvest is in. Not only in Klameth Canyon, but in most Granger communities. Tradition’s important to us. Not just traditional ways of farming, but family traditions, too. Stories and dances, folk arts and handicrafts, languages and literature and music. Even a way of looking at things that’s tied to relying on the land.”

  Simon set the long-handled spatula aside and gazed into the darkness for a few moments, lost in thoughts that left him looking inexpressibly lonely. “That’s nice,” he finally said. An emotion that Kafari eventually identified as yearning filled his voice as he added, “I’ve never belonged anywhere, that way. I study Russian history and liste
n to Russian music, so I’ll have some kind of connection with my ancestors, but I don’t have a family to share it with.”

  Kafari hesitated, then decided to ask, anyway. “What happened to them?”

  “My parents and sister were killed in the Quern War. I didn’t have any other family, nothing to tie me to any particular place. Pretty much the only thing I wanted was to go away and never come back. So I looked up the Concordiat’s recruiter and applied for training as a Bolo commander. I was eighteen, then. That was a long time ago,” he added softly, still staring into the velvety darkness beyond his patio.

  “You never found anyone else?”

  In the space of one heartbeat, his whole body turned to rigid steel. Kafari wanted to kick herself all the way back to Madison. Then a deep, slow-motion shudder went through him and his muscles softened again into human flesh. “Yes. I did. In a way.”

  “You lost them, though, didn’t you? On Etaine?”

  She thought for a long moment that he didn’t intend to answer. Then he started to speak, voice hushed in the cool springtime darkness. “Her name was Renny…” That he had loved her was obvious. That she had blamed him was incomprehensible. Kafari’s brothers lay under deep-piled rubble, where part of the cliff had come down onto the house. There was very little doubt that the Bolo’s guns had wrought much of the damage. Parts of a Yavac could be seen, jutting up through the jumbled piles of stone, very near what would have been the front porch.

  But it didn’t matter whether the Yavac’s guns or the Bolo’s had wrought the actual fatal blows. Terms like friendly fire and collateral damage were — to Kafari, anyway — meaningless. If the Deng had not invaded, her brothers would still be alive. The Deng had killed them, no matter who had fired the actual shots. When she tried to tell him that, Simon Khrustinov stared into her eyes for long moments.

  Then he whispered, “You are a remarkable woman, Kafari Camar.”

  She shook her head. “No. I’m just a Jeffersonian.”

  The touch of his fingertips on her face, tracing the shape of nose and cheek and brow, left shivers coursing through her. “I’m beginning to think there’s no such thing as ‘just a Jeffersonian.’ ” He smiled, then. “I’d better turn those steaks before they’re ruined.”

  That was just as well, since Kafari didn’t think she’d have been able to say two coherent words together, in the wake of that brief but devastating touch. They were both silent for several long moments, Simon watching the steaks, Kafari watching Simon. The sizzle of dripping fat served as counterpoint to the softer rustle of wind in the meadow grasses surrounding Nineveh Base. The mouth-watering scent reminded Kafari that hours had passed since her hastily eaten lunch at the dorm kitchen. The buzz of the oven timer sent Kafari scooting back into the kitchen to test the biscuits. Her critical eye and the golden brown color, plus years of experience in a farm kitchen, told Kafari they were done.

  She snagged a bowl and slid the biscuits into it, using a small towel to cover them, and rummaged until she found butter. No cane syrup or honey, but they ought to be tasty enough. Simon carried in the steaks, Kafari fished out the corn and dumped the veggies into another bowl, then they sat down. Simon poured the wine, tasting it expertly before filling Kafari’s glass.

  “Ma’am, this looks and smells like some kind of wonderful.”

  She smiled and passed the butter. “How’d the bake turn out?”

  He broke open one fluffy biscuit, smeared butter, and tasted. Then closed his eyes and let go a sound that was more groan than sigh. “Oh… my… God…”

  Kafari grinned. “I think that’s the biggest compliment I’ve ever heard a man give somebody’s cooking.”

  Simon opened his eyes and said, “Miss Camar, what I do is called cooking. This,” he waved the remains of his biscuit, “is artistry.”

  “Thank you, Major Khrustinov.” She smiled. “Maybe we could graduate to first names? I feel like I’m in grammar school, again.”

  The smile started in his eyes and spread to the whole of his body. “You sure don’t look like a school girl, Kafari.”

  At the moment, with those remarkable eyes touching places inside that she hadn’t even known existed, Kafari didn’t feel much like a school girl, either. She bent over her steak, concentrating on knife and fork to regain her composure. The first bite caused her to roll her eyes upwards. “Oh, wow…” She chewed appreciatively. “What is that sauce?”

  He grinned. “It’s a secret recipe. Something I threw together out of sheer necessity, trying to make military rations palatable.”

  “Huh. Bottle this stuff and sell it and your fortune’s made. I’m not kidding. This is wonderful.”

  They fell silent for several minutes, applying themselves to the meal. Simon’s wine, a local vintage, was a perfect complement to the steak. Kafari hadn’t eaten this well since her last visit home from Vishnu, more than a year previously. Beautiful music washed through her awareness, soothing and lovely. She was aware of Simon, as well, with every nerve ending, every pore of her skin. She wanted more of this. Quiet evenings spent with someone special, enjoying good conversation, good food jointly prepared.

  And she wanted more — much more — of Simon. More of his smiles, his remarkable eyes peering into the depths of her soul, more of the reasons for the shadows in those eyes, more of the teasing and laughter, and more — she had to gulp at the mere thought — of those incredible hands touching her.

  The strength of her wanting was new to Kafari’s life, new and a little frightening. She hadn’t ever wanted anyone like this, never in her life. It scared her, made her feel shivery and strange, made her wonder if these feelings had always lain dormant inside her, hidden away until the right man came along, or if the war had somehow triggered them, changing her at a core level she didn’t want to probe too deeply.

  Mostly, she wanted, hoped — prayed — that Simon would touch her again.

  He produced ice cream for dessert, then they washed dishes in companionable silence. When the last plate and pan had been wiped down and put away and the last crumbs had been swept away from counter and tabletop, leaving the kitchen gleaming again, Simon refilled their wine glasses and they moved into the living room.

  “Oh, that was good,” Kafari sighed, settling into the sofa.

  “Yes,” he agreed softly, sitting beside her, “it was.”

  Somehow, she didn’t think he was talking about the meal. After a moment’s reflection, Kafari realized she hadn’t been, either. She wasn’t sure how to proceed from here, felt abruptly awkward and shy. The Bolo saved her from tongue-tied silence.

  “Simon,” it said, overriding the music, “the riot has been contained. Madison police have arrested one hundred fifty-three people. Residences and businesses have been damaged in an area encompassing ten city blocks. The alleged ringleader is a student by the name of Vittori Santorini. The rally he conducted was entirely lawful. He is not in custody and will not be charged, as he did not participate in the actual riot. I have scanned the datanet as directed. He maintains a site that advocates abolition of special aid to farmers and ranchers, stronger environmental-protection legislation, and cost-of-living subsidies for the urban poor. His chat board averages three hundred seventeen posts a day and his newsletter has ten thousand fifty-three subscribers, ninety-eight percent of whom have joined within the past three point two weeks.”

  Simon whistled softly. “That’s a lot of activity in a very short time. This guy bears watching. Sonny, monitor his actions, please, until further notice. Discreetly, mind.”

  “Understood, Simon.”

  “Do you have any visuals of him?”

  The viewscreen on the entertainment center crackled to life. Kafari recognized him at once. He was young, not more than twenty. His hair was dark, his skin pale as curdled milk. His eyes, a nearly transparent blue that might have looked glacial, in another face, had a fire-eaten look about them. Shudders crawled down Kafari’s back.

  Simon looked down into her e
yes. “That’s the guy you saw?”

  Kafari nodded. “There’s something… not quite right, about him. His rhetoric didn’t make any logical sense, but those people were spellbound.”

  “Charismatic fanatics are always dangerous. All right, Sonny, I’ve seen enough for one night. Thanks.”

  “Of course, Simon.” The viewscreen went dark.

  Kafari shivered again. Simon hesitated, then slid an arm around her shoulders. Kafari leaned against him, soaking up the warmth and basking in a feeling of safety that drove away the cold waves coursing through her. A moment later, warm lips touched her hair. She tilted her face up, drowned in the bottomless depths of those shadowed eyes. Then he was kissing her, gently at first, then with hard hunger. His hands moved across her, those beautiful hands, caressing, sliding around to cup and stroke, the heat of his fingers on her flesh setting her ablaze from within. Kafari whimpered, guiding his fingers to tweak one nipple. He fumbled with buttons and so did she.

  There were scars under his shirt, old scars, jagged and white with age. He sat very still as she traced her fingertips across them, trailing the width of his chest and down one arm. For a long moment, Simon just looked at her, eyes smouldering, breaths unsteady and rushed. “My God,” he whispered. “You are so beautiful it hurts…” He closed his eyes, clearly fighting for control. Eyes still closed, he said raggedly, “Not here. Not like this. You’re too precious to just take you on a couch, like some rutting teenager with no control.”

  Kafari’s eyes burned and her throat closed. Nobody had ever said anything half so beautiful to her, ever. She didn’t think anyone ever could. “Why don’t—” she whispered, then had to stop and swallow, hard. She tried again. “Why don’t we move somewhere else, then?”

  He opened his eyes, gazed into hers for a long time. “You’re sure about that?” he finally asked, voice strained.

  She nodded, not trusting hers.

  The slow smile in his eyes would have dimmed the noonday sun. A moment later she was in his arms. He swung her up, off the couch, carried her into his bedroom, went to the bed with her. The feel of his body against her — and aeons later, inside her — was the most beautiful sensation she had ever felt. Tears came to her eyes as she arched against him, crying out softly and then more urgently. She wanted him, needed him, knew that she would go on needing him for as long as they both continued to breathe. In the shuddering aftermath, he simply closed his arms around her and held on, like a little boy seeking safety in a storm. She wrapped her arms around him, cradled his head against her bosom, and held him while he slept.