One thing about Ava; she kept her wits about her. Sitting in that tight bathroom could not have been comfortable, but it would give her some level of concealment if someone stepped into the room other than me. “How do you like the ship?” I asked.
“It beats the hell out of Clonetown, Honey.”
“We had more space back at Fort Bliss,” I pointed out.
“I had to pee in a bucket,” she said. “I like the cool air.”
“Glad you’re satisfied,” I said.
“Satisfied? Aren’t you some kind of important officer. Why did they stick you in such a tiny apartment?” She stood up and examined herself in the mirror over my sink until she found a smudge on her forehead. Then she ran the water to wet a tissue and dabbed at the spot.
Ava may not have risked a shower just yet, but she had clearly preened. She had hand-tousled her hair and washed her face and arms.
Confined to my shed, she had not gotten any sun in weeks and her skin had gone milky white. A permanent film of sweat and dust had formed on her body. Having had some time to clean herself, she now looked clean and pale.
“These are not my permanent quarters,” I said. “Once I assume command of the fleet, I get a deck to myself.”
“A deck to ourselves? That sounds absolutely marvelous,” Ava said as she continued inspecting herself in the mirror. This was the first chance she’d had to fix herself since General Smith had dumped her off at Fort Bliss, and she could not tear herself away from the mirror. “When do we move in?”
“It’s not going to be that easy. Before we can move in, Admiral Thorne needs to move out.”
“Who is Admiral Thorne?”
“He’s the fleet commander.”
“I thought you were the fleet commander?”
“He’s the outgoing fleet commander.”
“So when does he check out?” Ava asked.
Ava stood there in the bathroom, the cleanest I had seen her since I met her at the New Year’s Eve party. She had to know what I wanted, but she gave no sign of reading me. I took a step toward the bathroom, and she finally looked away from the mirror. Her green eyes locked in on mine, and I saw something both playful and stern in her expression.
“Don’t you think it might be a little tight in here for two?” she asked.
“Not if we get real close,” I said.
“That doesn’t sound very comfortable,” she said.
“Then come on out, there’s plenty of space out here,” I said.
She shook her head, and said, “I think I like it better in here.”
“Any way you want it.” I started toward her.
“By myself,” she added.
“So why did you get all cleaned up like that?” I asked.
Ava smiled an indulgent, amused smile. “Honey, that’s the difference between girls and Marines. I cleaned up because I wanted to be clean, not because I wanted to have sex.”
“Oh,” I said. After that, I went to my rack and reviewed the orders Admiral Thorne had given me. I spent two hours reading and rereading them; and then, ready or not, it was time to start briefing my men.
Our first staff meeting did not go as I had expected.
We held the meeting in a staff room near the bridge. In the future, once Admiral Thorne and his corps of natural-born officers returned to Earth, I would conduct staff meetings on the fleet deck.
For this first meeting, I only brought two of my men, Thomer and Herrington. Thomer, who must have luded up a few hours earlier, paid little attention to the surroundings as he entered the room. He walked straight to the conference table and sat down without even scanning his surroundings.
Not Herrington. An enlisted man who had limited contact with the upper ranks, he’d never seen how the commissioned tenth lived. He stepped through the door, stopped, took in the size of the room, then spun one of the leather chairs. He whistled. “Some digs,” he said. “Do we get to play in here whenever we want?”
Hearing this, Thomer glanced around the room. He squinted his eyes, and his forehead wrinkled, giving him a confused expression; but he still made no comment.
Taking the chair at the head of the table, the captain’s chair, I brought out the orders Admiral Thorne had given me, along with a small audio chip I had found inside the folder. I set the folder down on the table, then placed the chip in the media reader near my seat.
“Who’s coming to this meeting?” Thomer asked, the glazed expression fading from his eyes.
“Ships’ captains and fleet officers,” I said.
“Officers?” Thomer asked. “I thought all of the natural-borns were going home.”
“They aren’t officers yet, but they will be once the Thorne administration leaves. There’s a new round of promotions coming up. How does Brigadier General Kelly Thomer sound to you?” I said as I fished the promotions list from my folder and handed it to Thomer.
“You’re joking, right?” Herrington asked, both looking and sounding as if he was fighting the urge to laugh. “Thomer, a general? I have enough trouble getting used to you as a captain.”
Thomer took the list and slowly read it. Thomer had become a study in clinical depression. Over the last two years, he had lost enough weight to go from skinny to skeletal. He had the haunted look of a man who has seen too many friends die on the battlefield. Before New Copenhagen, Thomer’s biggest problem was excessive worrying over small details. Now I wondered if he cared about anything.
“I’m a brigadier general?” Thomer asked. He looked me in the eye and could tell I was not joking. “How is that possible?”
Having been raised in an orphanage, Thomer had already reached the highest rank he could have hoped to attain—master gunnery sergeant. Now, out of the blue, the Marines had advanced him twelve pay grades.
Herrington moved behind Thomer so he could read over his shoulder. After thirty-two years serving in the Marine Corps as an enlisted man, Sergeant Lewis Herrington would shortly find himself holding the rank of full-bird colonel. He took the news of the promotion with his usual stoic good humor. He said what he always said when he heard good news, “You have got to be shitting me!” After a second glance, Herrington added, “A field rank promotion from sergeant to colonel, there’s one for the books.”
“You can’t run a fleet with master sergeants and petty officers at the helm,” I said.
According to these new orders, I was both fleet commander and “Scutum-Crux Arm administrator,” a position that sounded more political than military. I held the field rank of lieutenant general in the Marines. In my experience, only naval officers commanded fleets; but my rank made me the highest-ranking officer in the Scutum-Crux Arm.
At least I would be the highest-ranking officer in the Scutum-Crux Arm once the natural-born officers went home. Until Admiral Thorne and his crew left, I would remain a captain. If and when Washington sent natural-born officers to inspect the fleet, my rank would automatically revert to captain.
Thomer finished reading the orders over and handed them to me. “I can’t be commandant of the Marines,” he said in that quiet voice. “I think that I might be a clone.”
“Something’s wrong with my hearing. I could have sworn he just said he thinks he’s a clone,” Herrington gasped. “Aren’t you supposed to have one of those death reflexes now? Aren’t you going to keel over?”
“Thomer, we have to get you off that Fallzoud shit,” Herrington added, staring at Thomer as if he had horns sprouting from his ass.
“You might want to hold off on that, Sergeant,” I said. “Fallzoud may be the only thing keeping this Marine alive.”
Just then a chime rang, warning us that the other members of our conclave were outside the door. “Keep a lid on the promotions for now,” I said as I placed the orders back in the folder and went to let them in. Herrington nodded, but his eyes remained on Thomer, who sat as placid as ever.