"You've given me an excellent idea of your capabilities," Yacatolli snarled, holding up his thumb and forefinger circled into an O. "Do I need to remind you I am the ranking Imperial officer in this system? This is an Army operation, and Fleet will follow orders."
Out of the immediate range of the channel pickup, Kosho's eyes widened and she shot a pleading look at Hadeishi, pressing her palms towards the floor. The Chu-sa unclenched his fists – also out of view – and tried to breathe deeply. Yacatolli stared back at him, waiting.
Finally, Hadeishi nodded in agreement, though there was a sour taste in his mouth. Army running Fleet? At this moment, even the Buddha is dumbfounded!
"Expect a 'cast transfer of new orders tomorrow. Yacatolli, out."
The v-display went black, then reset to standby. Hadeishi sat stiffly, staring at the pale blue colors, the corner of his left eye twitching. He did not look at Kosho. After a little while, she stood up, bowed and went out quietly.
When she was gone he slumped, almost shuddering into his chair. Now, what will you do if something happens? A sharp, angry voice echoed in his thoughts. You've worn your poor ship to the bone – how could this be an improvement on sending her to the breaking yard?
Hadeishi had no answer for his conscience. He rubbed his brow line with the back of his thumb, trying to drive away the piercing headache.
With the aft air exchangers running at less than half strength, the enlisted mess on deck sixteen of the Cornuelle was oven hot, stifling and filled with an oily smell from the recyclers. Marine gunso Fitzsimmons slouched into the mess in a pair of ratty exercise shorts and a sour mood. Due to the constant heat and humidity, off-duty personnel had taken to wearing as little as possible.
This made the sight of Heicho Felix and some of her cronies draped in flamboyantly colored fabric from head to toe unexpected. Fitzsimmons altered course, veering away from the rows of drink dispensers, and parked himself on the end of a nearby table.
Felix and the other female Marines ignored Fitzsimmons, their attention on a stack of iridescent cloth wrapped around wooden dowels, boxes of shining trinkets, fluted leather bottles with wax stoppers, stacked sets of bowls and cups in a pale, shimmering green glaze, plump bags of ground spices, a basket of some spiky native fruit, and boxes covered with garish labels and boldly unintelligible lettering. A rich smell of ginger and cinnamon suffused the air around them. After a moment of watching the women, Fitzsimmons realized they were dividing up the goods.
"Hey Felix, where'd you get all this stuff?"
The Heicho looked up, made a face to see the fish-belly-pale shape of the Marine sergeant in nothing but tatty shorts, and then grinned mischievously. "Gunso! How are you today? Well, I hope." She cocked her head to one side, considering him. "Have you been working out?"
Fitzsimmons scowled, scratching his taut stomach. Every Marine on-ship worked out constantly. There was little else for them to do, since both combat simulators were broken and when there was an opportunity to exercise their skills, it usually meant the captain needed them to storm some refugee ship seized by raiders, after floating with their combat suits dialed down to minimum power to escape detection as they spiraled through a long ballistic orbit to match velo with the captured ship, while the Cornuelle traded missiles and beamfire with the Megair spider-cloud as a distraction. The sergeant pointed at one of the leather bottles. "Is that booze?"
"If it is," Felix said in a brisk tone, stepping in front of the rack of bottles, "it's not yours."
"You've been planetside," Fitzsimmons said, considering the piles of loot and scratching a jaw covered with stiff black stubble. "Lot of free time if you were supposed to be standing security. Your detail commander know about all this?"
The other Marines shared a brief, worried glance. Felix, however, gave the sergeant a commiserating smile. "Of course. Sho-sa Kosho likes me. Oh, did I mention I happened to run into an old friend of yours groundside? That blonde girl you spent so much time with…what was her name…"
"What are you talking about?" Fitzsimmons glared at the corporal. "There's only one blonde I've even seen in the last two years that wasn't wearing a uniform, and she's -"
"Miss Anderssen! That's right." Felix's dark eyes glinted in amusement. "She was looking very fetching the other night, when the lieutenant commander was out on the town. Nice dress. Very stylish. Would you like to see a picture?"
"Smoke and ash," Fitzsimmons barked, standing up. His stomach made an odd, queasy flip-flop. "Gretchen's about sixty lights from here, at home, working on some…some important scientific discovery…or something."
"I don't think she's working," the Heicho said, rummaging under the gleaming silk. "Ah, here we are." She pulled out a holo and examined the image – hidden from Fitzsimmons' line of sight – with a critical air. The other Marines leaned in, smirking. "Yes, she is an attractive woman in a very flattering outfit. Don't you think so, girls?"
"Oh yes," they all said, batting their eyelashes.
Fitzsimmons made a strangled sound, closed his eyes, took three deep breaths and opened them again, glaring at Felix and the holo in her hand. "Fine, Corporal, keep your bones. Can I see the holo?"
"Hmmm…" Felix hid the picture against her shoulder, making a show of considering the matter. "Well…you are a pretty solid squad leader, and you saved my life one time on Kotopaxi, so I guess you could have this…" She handed him the holo. "Our surveillance cameras are really very sharp, even at night and in the rain."
Fitzsimmons stared intently at the picture. A pretty blonde woman with long wavy hair was standing in the shadow of an ivy-covered gate, talking to the slim, straight figure of Sho-sa Kosho. He tried not to sigh, watching the European woman smile, face lighting up, one hand brushing thick hair back over a bared shoulder. The fidelity of the holo was very good – you could see raindrops falling past. Then he noticed targeting and range indicators softly glowing at the edges of the holo.
"Mother of Tepeyac, Felix, you were surveilling the Sho-sa with your gun-scope?!"
The Heicho shrugged. "You want the picture or not, sergeant? Sure would brighten up your rack."
Fitzsimmons shook his head and handed the holo back, drawing a surprised look from Felix. "Thanks, Corporal, but no. Some of us are borne by water, carried by wind. Not her, though. Not her." She has a family, children – a whole world waiting for her at home.
"That's pretty poetic for a…" Fe lix started to say, then fell silent at the pinched, distant look on Fitzsimmons' face.
Without another word, the gunso slouched off towards the drink dispensers. In the picture, visible for just a moment as Anderssen moved her hand, there had been a flash of gold on her ring finger. Fitzsimmons couldn't remember her wearing a binding band before. But she was working when I was with her. Not at a party. Don't want anything on your hands if you're dinking around with heavy machinery. Though he'd sent her several letters, she'd never replied.
Surrounded by the bright colors of native loot, Felix watched the sergeant with a worried look. She glanced down at the holo in her hand, then pinched the bottom-left corner to flush the paper clean. She wondered if she should apologize, then set the thought aside. No sense in stirring up old regrets. The gunso would survive. They all did.
The Imperial Legation
The Red Fort, Central Parus