Next to me was a highly toned young woman, with an attitude and look I liked, near naked and within arm’s reach. I couldn’t touch her for all the obvious reasons. And the purpose of this exercise was so people would think we were sexual. That, and it created a better bond for the masquerade psychologically. It had all the advantages of a real relationship, without the sex. That was exactly the problem.
I lay there for most of a div, 2.7 hours, sweating slightly and not sleeping. No, I could not “accidentally” grope her. I couldn’t snuggle. I couldn’t do anything that would give my body a hint that anything was going to happen. It was strictly a cover. My body didn’t believe it. Then I realized my brain didn’t, either.
Eventually, I got up and headed through to take a long, hot, soaking, mind-numbing shower. It almost worked. Eventually, it did. Then I came back and slept, exhausted, as far away from her as I could get and still be in the same bed.
CHAPTER 3
The alarm went off at 2 divs. That’s about 5 am, allowing for our longer day and different clock. The warble sounded and the lights came on. I was on my feet at once, because if I hesitate, I fall back asleep.
“Good morning!” I said, doing my best impression of the type of morning person I despise. “Time for our morning workout!” I added.
“Right. Okay,” she croaked, eyes squinted and face pinched. She didn’t look bad in the morning, but she certainly wasn’t pretty. She rolled out and clutched at clothes.
I was dressed in seconds, pulled on my running shoes and snugged them down. I hopped into the kitchen and grabbed the kits I’d prepared the night before—two of the detachable assault packs from the SW’s large rucks, filled with water, some sundry items and food bars for warmup. I came back through, dropped them on the bed and hit the bathroom. She was running a brush through her hair to get rid of the crinkles. She wore tight shorts, running shoes and a ziptop, and looked disgustingly trim. When I came out, she had hold of one of the packs.
“Why these?” she asked.
“Practice,” I said. “We might need to carry gear, and if we can run with it, we can run without it. We’ll work up to boots in a few days, too. Grab your weapon and let’s hit it.” I pointed at the pile as I leaned in and grabbed a pack and my holster.
We slipped out quietly. Chel was still asleep and wouldn’t be up until 2.5 for school. No need to wake her. Then we were down the stairs and into the shop, quickly through the machines and out the back personnel door. Silver apparently thought it was fun. It wasn’t likely she’d done anything like this. Heck, she was only 6 years—less than 12 Earth years—older than my daughter. That was almost scary.
We walked the first couple of hundred meters, stretching out our pace to let muscles warm up. Then we moved into a loping jog.
I wanted to start easily. As I’d told her, the purpose was to get used to gear. We were both in good shape.
I was still in decent shape.
I wasn’t in bad shape.
I’d thought I was in shape.
Yes, I practice military hand-to-hand regularly. Yes, I have a fairly active lifestyle, walk regularly and carry large loads around the shop. I found out then there’s a huge difference between an active lifestyle for a civilian and a top-trained soldier.
The pack fit okay, pulling at my shoulders only a little. My holster wasn’t bad, though it bounced a bit against my hip. The weather was a nice 23 with a slight breeze coming from the northeast—sea breeze; we were about twenty-five kilometers inland. It was still dark. I headed straight for Perimeter Road so we could parallel the fence around the starport for a bit.
I was sweating and ragged by the time we got there. I got worse as we ran along it, heading west toward the mountains. Breath was burning my throat, my guts were hard and lumpy in pain, and I was bulling my way through from sheer bloody-minded determination. At least I still had that. I didn’t have my wind anymore.
I turned us around after three kilometers and headed back, against the sea breeze. It was past dawn now, Iota rising and the wind freshening against us. That was good because it was cool against the clammy sweatiness of my body, bad because it was more resistance.
I was only too glad to be back at the shop, my lungs screaming, muscles spasming and sweat pouring out of me. She was still fresh. Obnoxious little bitch. Then I saw her indulgent smile. She was trying to politely mask it, but not well enough.
Another lesson had to be delivered. “Pushups,” I said, and dropped, still wearing the pack.
She actually tried to keep pace with me.
First of all, men have far more upper body muscle than women. This is why women carry their rucks on their hips, men on their shoulders. Second, I might not be fifteen anymore, but I still carried heavy loads often, and Special Warfare Candidate School had taught me about pushups. You get very good at them when they’re handed out like candy. I recalled several days when I’d had to deliver 1500 or more for some minor infraction.
She stayed with me up to 70. Not bad. In fact, I was impressed. But I pushed through to 150. She was impressed. I counted them as I went, nose down to the cast floor of the shop, inhaling the tang of metals, plastics, ceramics, solvents and oils, then up. I focused on a tiny chip in front of me, barely deep enough for a fingernail, and pumped up and down.
Then I sat back against the Number 2 mill.
“Well, I’ve got to work on my running,” I admitted. There was no point in pretending.
“You’ll be fine in no time,” she replied. She had that hint of bother that said she was afraid of saying more lest she annoy me or embarrass herself. She zipped her top open, the stretchy fabric bouncing free from her chest. “Damn, that feels better,” she said with a smile. She was admitting she wasn’t as tough as she’d made herself out to be. So, she’d been pushing, too. That was a good sign. I respect determination.
Oh, damn me, that was a perfect pair of breasts. If I’d walked by in the park and seen them, I’d have stared discreetly and politely. Now I had them intimately close and off limits.
They say Lawrence of Arabia was a masochist who only got off on pain and suffering. Was I that way, too?
I wasn’t sure I wanted to learn all these things about myself. I just wanted to raise my daughter in peace. After that . . .
Yes, I had seriously considered checking out after she reached adulthood. I could arrange an honorable accident, leave no note as to my past, and no one would ever know.
Except, of course, Naumann knew now, Silver did, Chelsea did, Andre could guess . . . if I killed myself now, no one would believe an accident, and if I didn’t leave a note, they’d suspect foul play.
I couldn’t even die in peace.
I don’t know if a god, the god, some god and goddess or some committee exists. If they do, though, when I get to the afterlife, someone is getting an ass kicking, and if they think their being omnipotent will stop me, they’ve never met a pissed off Operative.
I cleaned up and went to the shop, because I did have actual work lined up. One of the warehouses needed new bearing rollers for their loadout system. Silver went to her “job.” I actually don’t know where she disappeared two divs a day. I should probably learn that, though I assumed it involved talking to Naumann about me, though hopefully through mail drops. I couldn’t imagine he’d risk another face-to-face, but I should find out.
I worked until lunch, and was able to stop thinking. The rollers were straight tube, with pressed in bearing surfaces on each end. I did that part by hand, once I had them cut, because there were only fifty of them and it was easier to hold the piece and crank the press than to set up the Brett Loader to do it. I hate having the mechanical monstrosity walk around the shop anyway. It feels too much like a person I can’t stop.
I grabbed a calzone from Andre at lunch time. It felt as if everyone was watching me, and probably a few were. The story of the robbers was out, and a few knew I’d been the agent who dealt with them. Probably quite a few knew I was a vet, and it was stat
istically certain the story had blown out of proportion. I wasn’t exactly discreet at this point.
Had Naumann chosen me because he knew I could be manipulated? Was this even more dangerous than he’d hinted and he expected me to be taken out in the process?
Well, bring it on, dogfucker. I’d welcome it.
Andre handed over my usual and smiled.
Maybe I was reading too much into things.
I finished the steaming pastry, finished setting the bearings, and delivered the crate of goods. McMillan are honest business people, so I was happy to let them accept an invoice with net 50.
Silver’s runabout was parked near the shop when I got back. I glanced at the time and yes, that’s how late it was. The bay door was open so I slipped in quietly and looked around.
I heard her voice. She was in the reception room that led to the stairs and lift. I’m a natural spy and a trained one as well. I eased into a slouch next to the engine lathe and listened. Chelsea was there, too.
“So what’s your dad like? How do you handle him?”
Chelsea said, “He can be very intense. Unforgiving, some ways. He has no patience for quitting.”
“Yeah, I found that out,” Silver said, a slight rueful tone in her voice.
“But he’s very generous and compassionate. He lets me be my own person, even if he’s strict. I love him a lot.”
“Sounds as if he’s a good dad.”
“I suppose. I know I feel luckier than most of my friends. Though I’m not sure how to handle this new past of his. He’d told me he’d been a soldier, and done some rescue work. He said he’d been in some ugly combat and didn’t want to talk about it. But now . . .” she paused, “. . . I dug into the records about his career and unit. They’re . . . disturbing. I never realized how much abuse he took, even before the war. Even before Mtali. He’s spent sixteen years dealing with death and pain.” She sounded hurt.
Yeah, I’d wanted to save her from that. That, and there’s just no way to explain it. Nor could I trust anyone with that information. No priest, no therapist. The only counselor I had was me.
I’d never thought about that, either. I’m probably a shit counselor.
“Yes,” Silver agreed. “I’ve seen the stuff you probably couldn’t find. It’s a sad story. The military uses its resources, and he’s just another resource to them. One that can cause a devastating amount of damage. Yet he’s a totally different person from Marshal Naumann, who’s done about the same. I think Naumann handles it better.”
“Oh?”
“Yes. But he doesn’t have a family, and he’s . . . colder. Probably sociopathic to some degree. Your dad’s really too nice to have done what he has. And he’s still nice after taking it all. He’s a very strong man.”
“It doesn’t sound like a job you put a nice person into,” Chelsea said.
“Would you want a cruel one doing it?” Silver asked.
Right. A cruel one like Naumann who could sentence people to die and not feel compassion. The right person at the strategic level. At the tactical level, he would be war crimes waiting to happen. Instead, send a nice kid. You’ll fuck his brain, but his guilt will stop him before he randomly kills people in compensation for the stress. A few may even kill themselves. Another may even start killing others, but rationalize it as moral because he’s being paid.
I’d avoided going mad by not thinking about this. I’d flushed large part of my past from memory. Now I was recalling it, and recalling why I’d flushed it.
I made a little noise and entered. Chel was upstairs by the time I reached the shop room, and Silver was near one of the machines.
“This arrived for you,” she said, and pointed.
It was a meter-long, narrow box. It didn’t match anything I remembered ordering. I pulled out my knife and grabbed it, and stopped.
Return ID was Alan David. That was Naumann’s name.
Deni’s personal effects.
Deni had a family. There was no ill will that I’d ever heard of, but she, or he, had saved this for me. If he, I was even more touched, hurt, raw. It meant we’d both known we were lovers and been unable, and afraid to admit it.
If Naumann was behind it, I couldn’t know if it was an honest gesture, or manipulation. I suppose that depended in part on whether or not he’d seen the contents.
I slit the binder tape and it snapped back. I took a breath, opened the box . . .
Her sword, which I’d suspected. Combat fittings at one end, dress fittings on the blade inside the crushed linen wrap. An Eaves custom wakizashi, of the style we favored in the unit.
There were a couple of printed pictures of her, which I flipped over quickly. A last generation memory zip, which I’d have to get decoded and run through my system to read. Some souvenirs, a few of which I recognized, from various planets, including a prisoner receipt from a drunken brawl in which we’d gotten arrested, some coins and notes, a grenade pin and some small gems and carved wooden talismans.
I found the note. It was basic paper from a desk pad.
“I’m sorry this isn’t on nicer material. I don’t plan ahead that well. That’s why you’re the officer.
“As I write this, you’re across the op room from me, finishing boarding plans for the mission. We’re both pretending not to notice the other, not to need each other.
“You’re reading this, so I’m glad one of us made it. If we both make it, I’ll show you this, and make a ritual of burning it. Then we’ll formalize things. Then we’ll be in bed about a week.
“I love you. Beat you to it.
“Deni.”
Well, at least I knew Naumann hadn’t seen it. He’d never have let me have it if he had.
Yes, I loved her. She loved me. We knew that and could never admit it, because we served in and out of the same unit, and supported each other, and at the end I was her commander. And I knew it when a stressed out mission and a weird schedule found us alone for an hour, and our daughter was conceived.
And I loved my daughter, but part of me hated that bitch Deni for sticking me with her, because it meant I’d had to stay alive, facing what I’d done, and now I had to go back there.
This stuff would mean more to me later. For now, it could go in a closet.
McLaren was good at reading people. She was on the far side of the shop studying my on-hand material inventory. I was as alone as feasible.
I carefully closed the box and carried it upstairs, where I could wrap it and hide it, even from me, until I was up to dealing with it.
***
I gradually shipped incoming jobs to other shops around the port, and even over to the harbor area. I completed the ones I had, and kept the machines running on stuff I came up with, just for the hell of it, so when anyone came in I was busy as hell and could claim overbooking as a reason not to take jobs. That also justified my publicly expressed desire to take a vacation. My standard line was, “In a few days.”
The worst part was playing the love-smitten single father. In public, Silver got felt up and caressed every little while, and we threw a few kisses in there now and then. Damn, but that woman could kiss. She accepted the role as camouflage and ran with it. Little gifts, occasional comm messages. Then soft, chewable lips brushing mine, with hands on my chest and shoulders.
I made it a point not to go to bed until I’d gotten some kind of release from somewhere. Otherwise, I couldn’t have slept, with her next to me.
But I wanted the human contact. When I’d been working sex for quick startup cash, that was the one part that I really enjoyed. I knew the clients needed and wanted that contact, and I could accept that as valid human touch, even if I hated myself too much to have any emotional involvement. Their need filled mine.
There was no way I’d emotionally involve with a subordinate I might have to order to die. Not again. Not ever again. But I wanted that body. I couldn’t have it.
I’d found a situation where a smart, sexy woman made things tremendously worse and m
ore depressing than I’d started with.
I didn’t want to consider that I could reach lower emotional depths.
Silver did good work. Her qualifications were honest. She arranged multiple usable IDs for several systems, faked up plenty more that were decorative only, converted cash into various other exchange media, built concealed weapons, tools and scanners for us. She could rip circuitry and code and rebuild faster than anyone I’d ever seen. That’s always been my weak point. I’d been machining a decade, largely self-taught, but I did it full time. She could keep up with me. I wasn’t worried about explosives. If she couldn’t swing that, I could.
I hit the banks, and so did she. We needed multiple IDs of pre-paid, collateraled cards, because I didn’t intend to make payments. We’d use them until they were depleted, or until we had to scrap IDs. So each ID had three to five cards with a limit of ten grand each.
Each day she went to work for a couple of divs. Each afternoon she came back with more resources, and an intel report. For all I know, she showed up on base in uniform and had a cover of being out on local assignment, which would technically be true.
I really wanted to take a week and do a bare bones insertion, starting in the mountains and walking/hitching back, and break into my own perimeter, and possibly on base as well. But, the latter posed a serious operational security leak, and the former part would take time we just couldn’t spare, with me about to abandon my business for as long as it took.
At least we had intel. She brought us DNA scans, a list of previous victims with bios and backgrounds, lengthy lists of connections.
One afternoon she came in, looking very serious, and said, “We believe he’s in Caledonia.”
“Right now?”
“Yes. We have tickets for tomorrow at two seventy.”
“Won’t those be a bit obvious and pricey?” I asked.
“No, we’ve had open tickets on retainer. Typical for business these days.”