"At ease, Lieutenant," Slight said. "This is First Sergeant Bogdanovich. Later she'll be introducing you to your platoon sergeant." Slight paused and went on delicately. "It seems that you might have recently been promoted . . ."
"Yes, ma'am," Sunday admitted. "I was promoted to first lieutenant about five minutes before I left the Ten Thousand."
Slight smiled as the first sergeant chuckled. "Well, you have to admire Cutprice's chutzpah. What were you before you were so abruptly promoted? A two L-T?"
"No ma'am," Sunday said with a frown. "I was a staff sergeant."
"Hmm," Slight muttered with a frown. "I'll have to think about that one. I think the message we were supposed to get was that he thinks you'd make a good ACS platoon leader. What do you think of that?"
"With all due respect, I don't particularly like it, ma'am," Sunday admitted. "Lieutenants don't get to kill Posleen. I wanted suits to kill horses, not to pull George and 'determine zones of fire.' And . . . there are some benefits to being a Fleet sergeant or a Ground Forces staff that you . . . don't have as a lieutenant. Besides getting to kill horses."
"I tell you what, Lieutenant," the captain said with another slight smile. "Let's slot you in at platoon leader for the time being. And if we decide it's not right for you, we'll break you back to sergeant with no hard feelings; Fleet Strike moves people around like that all the time with no real effect on their record. How does that suit?"
"Whatever you say, ma'am," Sunday rumbled.
"Have you met the battalion commander?" she asked. "He wants to meet any officers we receive."
"No, ma'am. I was told to report to the company commander first."
"Okay," she said. "AID?"
"Major O'Neal is in his office reviewing the training schedule," the AID said promptly. It had a deep male baritone unlike most of those Sunday had heard, which seemed to be all female. "His AID says he'd be happy for the interruption."
* * *
Mike nodded at Sunday and returned his salute. "Chill, Lieutenant," he said as a grin violated his habitual frown. "Sit, even."
The office was small, smaller than the company commander's and like hers almost completely unadorned. Behind the major a private from the rear detachment was up on a step stool painting in a motto on the wall. So far he had gotten to "He who" in thick black, Gothic lettering.
The major leaned back and picked up the cigar that had been smoldering in his ashtray. "You smoke, Lieutenant?"
Sunday paused for a moment then shook his head. "No, sir." He remained sitting rigidly at attention.
"Well, if you've been with the Ten Thousand for the last few years there's no point in trying to corrupt you," O'Neal said with another grin. "I got an e-mail about you from Cutprice. He explained that if I try to take any of your rank, he will personally . . . what was the phrase? 'Boil me in my own suit like an undersized lobster.' " The major puffed a few times on the cigar to get it started again and peered at the lieutenant through the smoke. "What do you think of that?"
"Uh, sir . . ." Sunday said, frozen. "I . . . uh . . . I wouldn't presume to comment on your interaction with Colonel Cutprice or on your decisions in regards to my position in the battalion."
"Sunday . . . Sunday . . . ?" Mike mused. "I swear I recognize that name . . ."
"We . . . have met briefly a time or two, sir," the lieutenant said. "The last time was at . . ."
"Rochester," Mike completed. "That one I remember; your physique is . . . distinctive."
"So is yours, sir," Sunday said then froze. "Sorry."
"No problem," Mike said with another grin, flexing one arm. His forearms were still the size of most people's thighs. "I take it you work out?"
"Yes, sir," Tommy answered. "At least two hours per day, duties permitting."
"Yeah," O'Neal said with a nod. "You'll be glad to hear that the suits permit weight exercise while in them. Otherwise there is no way I could maintain this. But I wasn't thinking of Rochester or even, I think, other battles . . . Shelly: Thomas Sunday, Junior, encounters and relationships, not while he was a member of the Ten Thousand."
"Thomas Sunday, Junior, is one of five combat survivors of the Fredericksburg defense . . ." the AID started to answer.
"That's it!" O'Neal said excitedly. "The kid wrapped up with the blonde! Even then I knew that anybody that could survive that and wind up with the girl was going to go far."
"Thank you, sir," Sunday said with the first smile since he'd entered the room.
"Thomas Sunday, Junior, is also the developer of 'Bridge over the River Die,' " Shelly continued doggedly. "That is all known connections."
"Hell, that was you?" Mike said. "That's a great module! We used it in Washington in the first landing. I remember being told that it was written by somebody from F'Burg but . . . well . . ."
"You figured they were dead?" Sunday said. "That was a good guess, sir," he continued with a grimace. After a moment he shook his head. "You actually used it off the shelf?"
"Even the smoke," Mike said. "Everybody thought I was some tactical genius. Thanks."
Sunday laughed. "You're welcome. If it makes you feel any better—" He paused and shrugged. "Well, I ripped some of your code from the Asheville Scenario."
"I know," O'Neal said with another grin, taking a pull on the stogie. "I reversed it and read the code; you even left in my trademark."
"Well . . ."
"S'alright, it's still a good module. So, what happened to the girl?"
"Wendy?" Tommy shook his head at the change of direction. "She's in a Sub-Urb in North Carolina. We . . . keep in touch. Actually . . . we keep in touch."
"Uh, huh," the major said. "In one of the ones around Asheville?"
"Uh, no, sir, Franklin. It's a little town . . ."
"By Rabun Gap," Mike finished with a frown. "I'm from there. My dad and daughter are still in the area. I doubt they'll meet up, though; people who go into Urbs rarely come out."
"Well . . . sir, I was wondering something," Tommy said carefully.
"Spit it out," Mike said with another pull on the cigar.
"Well, it's like this. Ground Force does not recognize dependents for anyone under E-6. I'd just made staff when Rochester came up. But if I'd stayed in Ground Force, we could have . . ."
"Gotten married," Mike said with a frown. "You ever hear the thing 'lieutenants shouldn't marry'?"
"Yes, sir," Sunday answered quietly.
"Shit," the major said with a shake of the head. "Fleet's started to get some very 'old fashioned' types in its upper echelons; and some of them are getting downright nasty on the dependents issue. I'm not sure if it will fly for a lieutenant. The fickle finger of fate, eh?"
"Yes, sir," the lieutenant answered. "I still wanted to transfer, sir, I'm still glad I'm here, however that affects Wendy and I. I . . . killing Posleen is what I do."
"That's a bit of an understatement and an underestimation, son," O'Neal answered. "I've seen your code. It's good; you even know what to rip off and what not to. Killing Posleen isn't all of what anyone should do."
"Well, sir, with all due respect I don't have much more," the lieutenant said. "My mom is in an Urb in Kentucky; she and my sister were in the Bunker. But, really, we hardly keep in touch. With the exception of Wendy, everything I ever knew is gone. And it seems like to make a real life, I have to kill all the Posleen I can. Until they're gone, we can't begin to get back to normalcy. So . . . I kill Posleen."