Chapter Four
Peace is very apoplexy, lethargy: mulled, deaf, sleepy, insensible: a getter of more bastard children, than war is a destroyer of men.
William Shakespeare
Coriolanus
Standard year 1607
PLANET EARTH, THE CONFEDERACY OF SENTIENT BEINGS
Having landed at Vandenberg Spaceport, and rented a ground car, Captain Antonio Santana drove north toward the metroplex that now encompassed what had once been the separate cities of San Francisco, Vallejo, Berkeley, Oakland, Hayward, Sunnyvale, and San Jose.
It had been a long time since the legionnaire had been on what some still referred to as “Mother Earth.” Having spent extended periods of time on primitive worlds like LaNor and Savas, it was difficult to adjust to the flood of high-intensity sensory input, as the skyscraper “skins” that lined both sides of the elevated expressway morphed into a single panoramic advertisement, and sleek sports cars passed him at 130 miles per hour. Meanwhile the onboard computer fed him an unending stream of unsolicited advice, which the soldier managed to escape by switching to autopilot and allowing the Vehicle Traffic Control System (VTCS) to drive the car for him.
A not-altogether-comfortable experience since the computers that controlled the system were primarily interested in moving Santana through the metroplex as quickly as possible. He felt the car accelerate and gave in to the urge to look back over his left shoulder as the VTCS steered his vehicle into the fast lane. It was a scary moment since a single electronic glitch could cause a massive pileup and cost hundreds of lives. But there hadn’t been one of those in years, or so the onboard computer claimed, not that the assertion made Santana feel any better.
What did make the officer feel good, however, was the knowledge that the Ramanthians wouldn’t be shooting at him anytime soon and that he was about to be reunited with Christine Vanderveen, the beautiful diplomat he had met on LaNor.
There was a downside, however, and that was the fact that Santana was on his way to see both Vanderveen and her parents, wealthy upper-crust types with whom a junior officer from humble beginnings was unlikely to be comfortable. Of course, the fact that Vanderveen wanted him to meet her family was a good sign and suggested that the diplomat wanted to continue the relationship that had begun within the Imperial City of Polwa and eventually been consummated in the hills off to the west. And that, from his perspective, was nothing short of an out-and-out miracle.
So as the enclosed highway dove under San Francisco Bay and made a beeline for the community of Napa, Santana felt a sense of anticipation mixed with concern. He’d been through a lot since LaNor, and so had she, so would the chemistry be intact? And what about her folks? They couldn’t possibly be looking forward to his arrival. Not given his working-class origins. But would they give him a chance? And assuming they did—would he be able to take advantage of it? Or wind up making a fool of himself?
Those questions and more were still on Santana’s mind as what had mysteriously turned into Highway 80 surfaced just north of the hundred-foot-tall seawall that kept the bay from flooding the burbs and the traffic control system shunted the rental car onto a secondary road that led to the gated community known as “Napa Estates,” a huge area that included all of what had once been called “wine country,” and was protected by a twelve-foot-high steel-reinforced duracrete blastproof “riot wall.” Which was designed to keep people like him out.
There was a backup, and Santana had to wait fifteen minutes before he finally pulled up to one of four inbound security gates. That was where an ex-legionnaire with a face so lined that it looked like one of the Legion’s topo maps scrutinized the officer’s military ID and shook his head sadly. “Sorry, sir, but I’ll have to put you through the wringer. No exceptions.”
Santana nodded. The fact that the legionnaire had fought for the Confederacy on distant worlds, and been separated from the military with a retirement so small that he had to work, was just plain wrong—a problem only partially addressed in the wake of the great mutiny. “What regiment?” the officer inquired, as the veteran scanned his retinas.
“The 13th Demi-Brigade de Legion Etrangere, sir,” the guard answered proudly. “We fought the Hudathans on Algeron and whipped ’em good!”
“You sure as hell did,” Santana agreed soberly. “I’ve seen the graves.”
“And if the frigging bugs make it to Earth, you’ll see some more,” the legionnaire predicted grimly. “There’s plenty like me—and we still know how to fight.”
The comment raised still another issue, and that was the fact that with the exception of people like the elderly security guard, no one seemed to be worried about the war with the Ramanthians. In fact, based on what the officer had seen so far, it was as if the citizens of Earth were only marginally aware that a war was being fought. A rather sad state of affairs given all the sentients who had died in order to protect their planet.
“Your invitation cleared,” the old soldier announced, and delivered a textbook-perfect salute. “Vive la Légion!”
“Vive la Légion,” Santana agreed, and returned the gesture of respect. Thirty seconds later he was inside Napa Estates and driving north along a four-lane road that took him past all manner of formal entries, gently curving driveways, and mansions set back among the vineyards the area was so famous for. Many of the estates included their own wineries, which in the case of the larger operations, were allowed to produce a few thousand bottles for sale. But those were the exception, since most of the residents made their money in other ways and preferred to consume the wine they produced rather than sell it.
All of which seemed fine on the one hand, since Santana believed in free enterprise, yet bothered him as well since there were those like the security guard who had risked everything to protect Earth and been denied a respectable retirement. It was a fate that might very well befall him if he wasn’t careful.
The common areas, like the broad swatches of irrigated grass that fronted the streets, were groomed to perfection. So each estate was like an individual element within a larger work of art. Nothing like the military housing in which Santana had spent his youth, prior to being accepted into the academy, where experts turned him into a gentleman.
But acting like the people who lived in the mansions to the left and right of him was one thing—and being like them was something else. Just one of the reasons why Santana slowed the car as he topped a rise, spotted the house that Vanderveen had described to him, and looked for a spot where he could safely pull off the road.
Then, having accessed his luggage, the officer did what any sensible legionnaire would do prior to launching an assault on an enemy-held objective. He took a small but powerful set of binos, waited for a break in traffic, and crossed the road. A camera mounted high atop the nearest streetlamp tracked his movements.
The grassy verge sloped up to a waist-high stone wall that served to define the estate’s boundaries. And, judging from appearances, the Vanderveen property was quite large. As Santana brought the glasses up to his eyes and panned from left to right, he saw rows of meticulously pruned vines that were the ultimate source of the Riesling that the Vanderveen family was so proud of. He could also see some pasture beyond, a white horse that might have been the one the diplomat liked to ride, and a cluster of immaculate outbuildings. The house itself was a straightforward three-story Tudor, and Santana knew that it was within that structure that the woman he loved had been raised, prior to being sent off to a series of expensive boarding schools.
But rather than pursue a career in science or business as she easily could have—Vanderveen had chosen to follow her father into the world of politics and diplomacy. A not especially profitable career path, but one that Charles Winther Vanderveen could well afford, thanks to his inherited wealth.
Santana heard a whirring sound, felt a puff of displaced air hit the back of his neck, and was already in the process of turning and reaching for a nonexistent sidearm when the airborne robot spoke. “Raise your hands and stay where you are,” the globe-shaped device advised sternly. “Or I will be forced to stun you consistent with Community S-reg Covenant 456.7.”
Santana raised his hands, and was forced to answer a series of security-related questions before the robot finally offered a pro forma apology and sailed away. The incident was humiliating, and if it hadn’t been for the opportunity to spend time with Vanderveen, the soldier would have left Napa there and then.
Having guided his rental car in between the stylized stone lions that stood guard to either side of the steel gate, Santana was forced to pause while a scanner checked his retinas. Only then was he allowed to proceed up the gently curving driveway that passed between an ornate fountain and the front of the house. Strangely, the mixture of emotions that Santana felt was reminiscent of going into combat.
The well-packed gravel made a subtle crunching sound as the tires passed over it, and by the time the vehicle rolled to a stop, a woman dressed in riding clothes was already exiting the front door followed by two human servants and a domestic robot. She had carefully coiffed gray hair, a slim athletic build, and covered the distance to the car in a series of leggy strides.
But what Santana found most striking of all was the woman’s face, which though older, was so similar to her daughter’s that there was absolutely no doubt as to who she was. “Captain Santana!” Margaret Vanderveen said enthusiastically. “We’re so glad you’re here! I hope the trip up from Vandenberg was comfortable.”
Prior to making the journey, Santana had been careful to brush up on proper etiquette, and therefore waited for his hostess to extend her hand before reaching out to shake it. The grip was strong and firm, as was to be expected of someone who worked side by side with the people who tended her vines. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, ma’am,” Santana said formally. “I can see where Christina got her looks.”
“Please call me Margaret,” the woman replied easily. “And I can see how you managed to turn my daughter’s head! Please, come in. Thomas, Mary, and John will take care of your car and luggage.”
Santana wondered which name applied to the robot, as he turned to retrieve a professionally wrapped package from the backseat, before allowing himself to be led inside. A formal entranceway emptied into a spacious great room that looked out over verdant pasture toward a turreted home perched on a distant hill. Though large, the home seemed smaller than it was because of all the artwork that Charles Vanderveen had not only inherited but brought home from a dozen different worlds. All of which had been integrated into an interior that was both eclectic and warm. A tribute to Margaret Vanderveen’s eye—or that of a professional decorator.
“Please,” Margaret Vanderveen said. “Have a seat. What can I get for you? A drink perhaps? I’d offer something to eat, but dinner is only an hour away, and Maria would be most unhappy if I were to spoil your appetite.”
“A drink sounds good,” Santana allowed. “A gin and tonic if that’s convenient.”
“It certainly is,” the matron replied as she rang a little bell. “And I think I’ll join you.”
There was the soft whir of servos as the robot appeared, took their orders, and left the room. Santana took that as his opportunity to present Mrs. Vanderveen with the carefully wrapped box. “Here,” he said awkwardly. “I had this made on LaNor.”
As Margaret Vanderveen accepted the present, she discovered that it was surprisingly heavy. Although hostess gifts weren’t important to her, the fact that the young officer had gone to the trouble of bringing one spoke to his manners, and a desire to make a good impression. Both of which were promising signs. Especially given his rough-and-tumble beginnings. “Why, thank you, Antonio! That was unnecessary, but the Vanderveen women love presents, so I therefore refuse to give it back.”
Mrs. Vanderveen was clearly attempting to be nice to him, so Santana allowed himself to relax slightly and wondered where Christine was. Out for a ride perhaps? Or gone shopping? There was no way to know, and he was afraid to ask lest the question seem rude.
The wrapping paper rattled as Margaret Vanderveen took it off to reveal a highly polished wooden box. Intricate relief carvings covered the top and all four sides. Later, when the matron had time to examine them more closely, she would discover that they were battle scenes in which her daughter had played a role.
But given the weight of the object, Margaret Vanderveen knew that the box had been designed to contain something more important. Something which, judging from Santana’s expression, he hoped she would like. Having found all of the little brass hooks that held the lid in place, Mrs. Vanderveen pushed each of them out of the way and removed the top. A sculpture nestled within.
“There are some truly remarkable artisans on LaNor,” Santana explained. “The locals refer to the carvers as ‘wood poets,’ and for good reason.”
As Margaret Vanderveen removed the wood sculpture from its case she found herself looking at a likeness of her daughter’s face that was so lifelike that it took her breath away. And then, before she could clamp down on what her mother would have regarded as an inappropriate display of emotion, tears began to flow down her cheeks. “It’s very beautiful,” the matron said feelingly. “And, outside of Christina herself, perhaps the nicest gift that I have ever received. Thank you.”
The reaction was much stronger than anything Santana might have hoped for, but he wasn’t sure how to handle it, and he felt a tremendous sense of relief when the robot arrived with their drinks. That gave Mrs. Vanderveen an opportunity to excuse herself for a moment. Her eyes were dry when she returned. “Sorry about that,” she said. “But the likeness is so good that it took me off guard. Antonio—”
“Please,” Santana interrupted. “My friends call me Tony.”
Margaret Vanderveen smiled and nodded. “Tony, the truth is that I have some bad news to share with you, and I’ve been stalling. A few weeks after Christine came home on vacation, she was asked to join President Nankool’s personal staff and felt that she had no choice but to do so.”
The older woman’s eyes seemed to beseech Santana at that point as if begging for understanding. “She knew you were on the way here,” Mrs. Vanderveen said. “And she knew there was no way to reach you in time. Believe me, Christine was absolutely beside herself with concern about how you would feel, and many tears were shed right here in this room. But there’s a letter,” the matron added. “This letter, which she left for you.”
The letter had been there all along, sitting between them, concealed in a beautiful marble box. The lid made a soft thump as she put it down. “If you’ll excuse me, I’m going to change for dinner,” the hostess said tactfully. “Ring the bell when you’re ready, and one of the servants will show you to your room.”
The soldier said, “Thank you,” and stood as his hostess got up to leave. Once she was gone, he sat on the couch. The drink was still there, so he took a pull and returned the glass to its coaster. Then, with hands that shook slightly, Santana opened the envelope. As a faint whiff of perfume found his nostrils, the legionnaire was reminded of what it felt like to bury his face in Vanderveen’s hair.
“My dearest Tony,” the letter began. “By now you know that I was called away by the one thing that can take precedence over you—and that is my duty to the Confederacy. And if we were not at war, even that would be put aside so that I could be with you!
“But these are troubled times, my dearest. Times when bombs fall on innocent cities, when missiles destroy unarmed ships, and when all that we both hold dear is at risk. So I beg your forgiveness, trust that you of all people will understand, and look forward to the moment when your arms will embrace me once again.
“With love and affection, Christine.”
The name was a little blurry, as if a tear might have fallen on it before the ink could dry, and Santana felt something rise to block the back of his throat. He wanted to run, to get as far away from the house that she had grown up in as he could, but it was too late for that. So the officer finished his drink, slipped the letter into the inside pocket of his new sports coat, and rang the little bell. The robot, whatever his name was, had clearly been waiting.
* * *
PLANET ALGERON, THE CONFEDERACY OF SENTIENT BEINGS
By the time Booly received the summons and arrived at what had once been Nankool’s private conference room, there was standing room only. The members of Vice President Jakov’s inner circle, including Assistant Undersecretary for Foreign Affairs Kay Wilmot, were seated around the long oval table, leaving everyone else to stand along the walls. Doma-Sa had been given a huge Hudathan-sized chair consistent with his status as a head of state. But others, Madame X and Chien-Chu included, weren’t so lucky. Booly, who found himself crammed in next to his wife’s uncle, whispered into the cyborg’s plastiflesh ear. “What the hell is going on, Sergi? This wasn’t on the schedule.”
“No,” the entrepreneur, politician, and reserve admiral agreed. “It wasn’t. And that was no accident! I used to pull the same stunt myself. . . . There’s nothing like a surprise meeting to catch the opposition off guard.”
Booly looked at the room and back again. “The opposition being?”
“Anyone who was close to Nankool,” Chien-Chu answered matter-of-factly. “And that includes you.”
Booly had never seen his relationship with the president that way, since he was a soldier, and sworn to serve whatever person held the office. Including Jakov, were he to succeed Nankool. But it looked like the vice president had other ideas and intended to marginalize the Military Chief of Staff. Preliminary to replacing him? Yes, Booly decided, and wondered which one of his subordinates would be put in charge of the Confederacy’s military forces.
There was a stir as Jakov entered the room from what had been Nankool’s office. The politician nodded and waved in response to a variety of greetings before stepping up to the table and looking around. “Hello, everybody—and thanks for coming on such short notice. But, as all of you know, we face something of a crises. President Nankool is dead or missing. And, absent information to the contrary, the first possibility seems to be the more likely of the two.”
Jakov paused at that point and his staff, led by Kay Wilmot, nodded in unison. “It’s been my hope that our intelligence people would be able to figure out what happened to the president,” Jakov continued. “And I know they’ve done their best. But time has passed, and there are those who feel we should activate the succession plan before word of what happened in the Nebor system leaks out. Because if we fail to stay out in front of this thing, the news could result in panic.”
Booly had to give Jakov credit. Rather than call for the activation of the plan himself—the politician had arranged for some of his cronies to do it for him. And one of them, the senator from Worber’s World, was quick to come to his feet. “The vice president is correct,” the bland-faced politician said fervently. “All of us feel badly about President Nankool, but we’re at war, and it’s absolutely imperative that we have strong leadership!” Wilmot had written those words and was pleased with the way they sounded as she added her voice to the chorus of agreement from those seated around her.
“The first step,” Jakov continued, “is to issue a carefully worded press release. A confirmation vote will be held soon thereafter. With that out of the way, we’ll be free to tackle some new initiatives, which could trim years off the conflict and save millions of lives. More on that soon.”
Doma-Sa’s hard flinty eyes made contact with Chien-Chu’s artificial orbs at that point, and even though they were from very different cultures, each knew what the other was thinking. There was only one way that Jakov and his sycophants could shorten the war—and that was to give the bugs a large portion of what they wanted. A period of relative peace might follow such an agreement. But at what price? Because ultimately the bugs would settle for nothing less than everything. A servo whined as the businessman’s hand went up. “May I say something?”
It had been Jakov’s hope, and Wilmot’s as well, that neither Chien-Chu nor Doma-Sa would hear about the meeting quickly enough to attend. But both were present, and given the past president’s undiminished popularity, there was little the vice president could do but acquiesce. “Of course!” Jakov said heartily. “What’s on your mind?”
“Simply this,” the cyborg said bleakly. “We know the president was planning to assume a false identity in order to blend in with the other POWs. So, if you announce that Nankool is missing, the bugs may very well take another look at the prisoners and quite possibly identify him. At that point the Ramanthians will almost certainly make some very public demands. What will happen then? Especially if it looks like you were in a hurry to succeed him?”
Nankool was popular, very popular, so Jakov knew what would happen. A lot of voters would be unhappy with him. So much so that they might seek to block or even reverse his confirmation. Especially if ex-president Chien-Chu stood ready to oppose him. But the facts were the facts, and like it or not, the cyborg would have to bow to reality. “You make an excellent point,” Jakov replied smoothly. “But surely you don’t believe we can wait indefinitely. . . . How would we explain the president’s continued absence?”
Jakov had a point, and Chien-Chu knew it, so the entrepreneur went for the best deal he thought he could get. The key was to buy time and hope that word of Nankool’s fate would somehow filter in. Then, if the president was dead, the cyborg would throw his support behind Jakov and try to exert influence on whatever decisions the politician made. “Thirty days,” Chien-Chu said soberly. “Let’s give the intelligence-gathering process thirty days. Then, if there’s no word of the president’s fate, I will support your plan.”
The vice president would have preferred fifteen days, or no days, but didn’t want to dicker in front of his staff. That would not only appear unseemly but smack of desperation. Besides, assuming that Chien-Chu kept his word, the ex-president’s support would virtually guarantee a speedy confirmation process. “Thirty days it is then,” Jakov allowed. “In the meantime, it’s absolutely imperative to keep the lid on. Is everyone agreed?”
There was a chorus of assent, but Wilmot knew her sponsor was likely to blame her for the way the meeting had gone, since she was the one who had put the idea forward. But Nankool was dead, Wilmot felt sure of that, and the day of succession would come. And when it did, Chien-Chu, his stuck-up niece, and the rest of Nankool’s toadies were going to pay. The thought pleased the assistant undersecretary so much that she was smiling as the meeting came to an end.
* * *
PLANET EARTH, THE CONFEDERACY OF SENTIENT BEINGS
Having surrendered the rental car to the traffic control system, Santana took his hands off the steering wheel and pushed the seat away from the dashboard. It was early afternoon, the Vanderveen estate was behind him, and he was happy to be free of it. Not that Charles and Margaret Vanderveen hadn’t been kind to him. They had. But what all of them had in common was Christine, and without her there to bind the three of them together, dinner had been stiff and awkward.
Diplomat Charles Vanderveen had taken the opportunity to tell his wife about the importance of the hypercom, Santana’s role in capturing the all-important prototype, and his recent promotion, all intended to build the officer up. A kindness Santana wouldn’t forget.
But when dessert was served, and Santana announced his intention to leave the following morning, neither one of the Vanderveens objected. And now, as the car carried the legionnaire south into the San Diego-Tijuana metroplex, Santana was looking for a way to kill some time. Fortunately, there was a ship lifting for Adobe in two days. That would allow him to save some leave and rejoin the 1st Cavalry Regiment (1st REC) earlier than planned. Now that he was a captain, Colonel Kobbi would almost certainly give him a company to command. And, after the casualties suffered on Savas, it would be necessary to create it from scratch. It was a task the officer looked forward to and dreaded at the same time.
The vehicle’s interior lights came on as the sprawling city blocked the sun, and the car entered the maze of subsurface highways and roads that fed the teeming beast above. A hab so large that the westernmost portion of it floated on the surface of the Pacific Ocean.
But Santana couldn’t afford the pleasures available to people like the Vanderveens, not on a captain’s salary, and felt his ears pop as the car spiraled down toward the Military Entertainment Zone (MEZ), where his credits would stretch further.
An hour later Santana had checked into a clean but no-frills hotel, stashed his luggage in his room, and was out on the street. Not a normal street, since the “sky” consisted of a video mosaic, but a long passageway lined by garish casinos, sex emporiums, tattoo parlors, cheap eateries, discount stores, and recruiting offices.
Nor was Santana alone. Because hundreds of sailors, marines, and legionnaires flowed around him as they searched the subterranean environment for something new to see, taste, or feel. Most were bio bods, but there were cyborgs, too, all of whom wore utilitarian spiderlike bodies rather than war forms. Ex-criminals for the most part, who had chosen a sort of half-life over no life, and served a very real need. Especially during a period when the Confederacy was literally fighting for its life. Even if people on planets like Earth seemed unaware of that fact as they continued to lead their comfortable lives.
The legionnaire was dressed in nondescript civvies, but the denizens of the MEZ knew Santana for what he was, and it wasn’t long before hustlers, whores, and con men began to call out from doorways, sidle up to tug at his sleeve, and pitch him via holos that exploded into a million motes of light as he passed through them.
Most were little more than human sediment who, lacking the initiative to do something better with their lives, lived at the bottom of the MEZ cesspool. But there were some, like the one-armed wretch who sat with her back to a wall and had a brain box clutched between her bony knees, who fell into a different category. Men, women, and borgs who had been used by society only to be tossed away when their bodies refused to accept a transplant, or they became addicted to painkillers, or their minds crumbled under the strain of what they had seen and done.
Santana paused in front of the emaciated woman, saw the 2nd REP’s triangular insignia that had been tattooed onto her stump, and nodded politely. “When were you discharged?”
The ex-legionnaire knew an officer when she saw one, even if he was in civvies, and sat up straighter. “They put me dirtside three years ago, sir. . . . As for Quimby here,” the vet said, as she tapped the brain box with a broken fingernail. “Well, he’s been out for the better part of five years. Ever since his quad took a direct hit, his life support went down, and he suffered some brain damage. A civvie was using him as a shoeshine stand when I came along. So I saved the money to buy him. He’s overdue for a tune-up though—so a credit or two would help.”
Santana knew she could be lying but gave her a fifty-credit debit card anyway. “Take Quimby in now. Before you buy any booze.”
The woman grinned toothlessly as she accepted the piece of plastic. “Sir, yes, sir!”
Santana nodded, and was just about to leave, when a raspy voice issued forth from the beat-up brain box. Though not normally equipped with any sort of speaking apparatus, Quimby’s brain box had been modified for that purpose. And while far from functional, the creature within could still think and feel. “I’m sorry, sir,” Quimby said apologetically. “But there were just too many of them—and we lost Norley.”
Santana felt a lump form in the back of his throat. “That’s okay, soldier,” he said kindly. “You did what you could. That’s all any of us can do.”
The crowd swallowed the officer after that, the woman stood, and lifted Quimby off the sidewalk. “Come on, old buddy,” she said. “Once we get those toxins flushed out of your system, we’ll charge your power supply and go out for a beer.”
“There were just too many of them,” Quimby insisted plaintively. “I ran out of ammunition.”
“Yeah,” the woman said soothingly, as she carried the cyborg down the hall. “But it’s like the man said. . . . You did everything you could.”
It was hunger, rather than a desire to see a fight, that drew Santana to the Blue Moon Bar and Fight Club. A well-known dive in which the patrons were free to eat, drink, and beat each other senseless. The interior of the club was about a third full when Santana entered. That meant there were plenty of seats to choose from. Especially among the outer ring of tables that circled the blood-splattered platform at the center of the room. It squatted below a crescent-shaped neon moon that threw a bluish glare down onto a pair of medics as they tugged an unconscious body out from under the lowest side-rope. That left the twelve-foot-by-twelve-foot square temporarily empty as those fortunate enough to survive the previous round took a much-deserved break.
Santana chose a table well back from the platform, eyed the menu on the tabletop screen, and ordered a steak by placing an index finger on top of the cut he wanted. A waitress appeared a few moments later. She was naked with the exception of a thong and a pair of high-heeled shoes. Most of her income came from tips generated by allowing patrons to paw her body. And even though the waitress did the best she could to produce a pouty come-hither smile, there was no hiding the weariness that she felt. “So, soldier,” the woman said for what might have been the millionth time. “What will it be? A beer? A drink? Or me?” Her saline-filled breasts rose slightly as her hands came up to cup them.
“Those look nice,” Santana allowed, as he eyed the giant orbs. “But I’ll take the beer.”
The waitress looked relieved as she wound her way between the tables and headed for the bar. She had a nice and presumably natural rear end, which Santana was in the process of ogling, when a commotion at the center of the room diverted his attention. “Ladies and gentlemen!” the short man in the loud shirt said importantly. “The battle began with six brave sailors, and five legionnaires, who gave a good account of themselves until the last round, when all but one was eliminated. So, with a total of three sailors left to contend with, our remaining legionnaire is badly outnumbered. Of course you know the rules. . . . New recruits can join the combatants up to a maximum of six people per team, one Hudathan being equivalent to two humans.”
The short man raised a hand to shade his eyes from the glare. “So who is going to join this brave legionnaire? Or would three additional sailors like to come up and help their comrades beat the crap out of her? She could surrender, of course. . . . Which might be a very good idea!”
The sailors, all male, had climbed up onto the platform by that time and were in the process of slipping between the ropes. The legionnaire, who was quite obviously female, was already there. She wore her hair short flattop style, and a black eye marred an otherwise attractive face. The woman stood about five-eight, and judging from the look of her arms and legs, was a part-time bodybuilder. Her olive drab singlet was dark with sweat, and a pair of black trunks completed the outfit. Her hands and feet were wrapped with tape, but the only other protective gear the legionnaire had was a mouthpiece that made her cheeks bulge. If the soldier was worried, there was certainly no sign of it as she threw punches at an imaginary opponent.
There were loud catcalls from the naval contingent, plus laughter from a sizable group of marines, but no one appeared ready to join the woman in the ring. That struck Santana as surprising, because in keeping with their motto Legio Patria Nostra (The Legion Is Our Country), legionnaires were notoriously loyal to each other. But by some stroke of bad luck it appeared the young woman and he were the only members of their branch present. And the last thing the officer wanted to do was be part of a stupid brawl.
“Uh oh,” the short man said, as his voice boomed over the bar’s PA system. “It looks like the odds are about to change!”
Santana saw that two additional sailors were climbing into the ring, both confident of an easy victory. Suddenly the odds against the lone legionnaire had changed from three to one to five to one. But rather than leave the ring as she logically should have—the woman continued to jab the air in front of her.
Santana sensed movement and turned to find that the waitress with the large breasts had arrived with his steak. The huge slab of meat was still sizzling, and the smell made his stomach growl. “That looks good,” the officer said as he got up from the table. “Keep it hot for me.”
The waitress glanced toward the ring and back again. “Okay, hon, but you’ll have to pay now. Because if those sailors send you to the hospital, then the boss will take your dinner out of my pay.”
Santana sighed, paid for the steak, and threw in a substantial tip. “Like I said, keep my food warm.”
The waitress wondered why such a good looking man would want to get his face messed up and gave him a kiss on the cheek. “Good luck, honey,” she said kindly. “Your steak will be waiting in the kitchen.”
“Wait a minute!” the short man proclaimed, as Santana began to make his way down the aisle. “What have we here? A legionnaire perhaps? A knight in shining armor? Let’s hear it for our latest contestant!”
Everyone, the sailors included, wanted a real contest, so a cheer went up as the officer removed his shirt and shucked his shoes. The MC gave Santana a mouthpiece and pointed to the lengths of tape that hung from one of the side-ropes. “Help yourself, bud, and good luck to ya. . . .”
As Santana began to wrap his hands, his brain kicked into high gear. The latest sailors to enter the ring were clearly inebriated. Would it make more sense to take them out first? Assuming that such a thing was possible. Or leave the drunks in, hoping they would get in the way? And what plans if any did his new ally have in mind?
As Santana climbed into the ring the naval contingent handed a bottle of booze up to their team, who continued to trash talk the Legion, while passing the bottle around. That gave the legionnaire a chance to get acquainted with his teammate. “My name’s Santana. . . . And you are?”
Before the young woman could answer, it was first necessary to remove the protective device from her mouth. Her left eye was swollen shut by that time—and Santana could see that her upper lip was puffy as well. “Gomez,” the woman said thickly. “Corporal Maria Gomez.”
“Glad to meet you, Corporal,” the officer said. “Although I wish the circumstances were different.”
The eye that Santana could see was brown and filled with hostile intelligence. “You’re an officer,” she said accusingly. The statement was tinged with disappointment.
Santana raised an eyebrow. “Yes, I am. Is that a problem?”
“It could be,” the noncom said flatly. “No offense, sir, but when was the last time you were in a barroom brawl?”
Santana had been fighting for his life only two months before, but he knew what the soldier meant, and he answered in kind. “Ten, maybe twelve years ago.”
“Then I’d say you’re a bit rusty,” Gomez replied. “Sir.”
The honorific had been added as an obvious afterthought, and Santana couldn’t help but grin. “You don’t like officers much, do you?”
“I wouldn’t go to a meeting without one,” Gomez replied disrespectfully. “But when it comes to a fistfight, then no sir, I don’t have much use for ’em.”
“Fair enough,” Santana replied gravely. “So, given your obvious expertise, how should we proceed?”
“We’ll take a corner and defend it,” the noncom replied confidently. “And, since at least two of the swabbies are drunk, they’ll get in the way as their buddies try to rush us.”
“I like it,” Santana said agreeably. “What sort of intel can you provide?”
“None of them use their feet well,” Gomez answered clinically. “But the big bastard has plenty of power—which is why I was standing here all by myself until you showed up.”
“No,” Santana objected. “That’s why you were alone, not why you were standing here. Maybe you would be kind enough to explain that to me.”
Something flickered deep within the noncom’s good eye. “I’m here because I like a good fight, no fucking asshole has been able to put me down so far, and the Legion don’t run.”
Santana might have answered, but the gong sounded, a cheer went up, and the battle was on. There wasn’t any ceremony. Just a loud bong, followed by a reedy cheer, as Gomez and Santana bit their mouthpieces. They stood side by side, with their backs to a corner, a strategy that made it difficult if not impossible to attack them from behind.
Like Gomez, Santana had been taught the fine art of kickboxing by the Legion, which considered the sport to be the martial art of choice for everyone other than special ops. They were expected to master other disciplines as well. But, as both of them assumed the correct stance, Santana could see that his teammate’s form was superior to his. So the legionnaire brought his eyes up, tucked his elbows in against his ribs, and reduced the distance between his legs. The officer knew the key was to put about 50-percent of his weight on each leg, with his right foot slightly forward and fists held shoulder high. Gomez saw the adjustments, nodded approvingly, and made a minute adjustment where her attitude toward officers was concerned.
In the meantime, the sailors were closing in. Given their recent successes against the legionnaires, plus the advantage that went with numerical superiority, the navy team expected an easy victory. Because of that, plus the scrutiny of those in the audience, the entire group wanted in on the kill. So the sailors charged in, but given the way the space narrowed, only three were able to make direct contact. That improved the odds as the first blows were struck.
The main reason that Gomez was still on her feet was the legionnaire’s ability to kick. Because most men had more upper body strength than she did, the noncom knew the battle would be over if they got their hands on her. So now, as a drunk shuffled forward, Gomez brought her right leg up in the bent position and struck with the ball of her foot. The sailor saw the kick coming, made a clumsy attempt to block it, but was way too slow. The blow struck his sternum, forced the air out of his lungs, and sent him reeling backwards.
That was when the rating collided with one of the two men who had been forced to wait and knocked the unfortunate sailor off his feet. Both went down in a flurry of uncoordinated arms and legs. The marines in the audience thought that was funny and laughed uproariously.
Meanwhile, Santana was fighting to hold his own against the man Gomez had warned him about. The sailor wasn’t a kickboxer, and didn’t need to be, given powerful shoulders and a quick pair of hands. Worse yet was the fact that the big noncom was taller and heavier than the legionnaire was.
The officer managed to deflect another blow with raised hands, flicked his head to one side, and felt a searing pain as a bony fist grazed the left side of his head. His ear was on fire, and Santana resisted the temptation to reach back and touch it. The gunner’s mate grinned happily and shuffled his size-fourteen feet.
The legionnaire could smell the other man’s foul breath as he took a step backwards and readied a front-leg round-kick. With his leg cocked, the officer turned sideways and put everything he had into the kick. Santana heard a satisfying grunt as his shin made contact with the other man’s groin. But the noncom was wearing a protective cup, so other than being forced to take a couple of involuntary steps backwards, the sailor was largely unaffected.
The momentary respite gave Santana the opportunity to pummel the second drunk with a series of quick jabs, the last of which brought a torrent of blood gushing out of his nose. Then, as the unfortunate rating sought to stem the flow with his fingers, a blow from Gomez put the drunk down for good. But four opponents were still on their feet—and they were pissed.
Having been bested once, and chided for it by the audience, the first drunk was determined to teach the Legion bitch a lesson. And, foggy though his thinking was, he knew her feet were the key. In an act that was part inspiration and part desperation, the rating made a diving grab for the woman’s legs.
Gomez saw the move coming, tried to leap up out of the way, but was a hair too slow. A pair of powerful arms wrapped themselves around her calves, the noncom came crashing down, and a loud cheer went up. “Stomp her!” someone shouted, and two of the sailors were quick to seize upon the opportunity.
Unable to rise, and therefore unable to protect herself, all Gomez could do was curl up in the fetal position and try to protect her head as dozens of blows connected with her body. The sailors weren’t wearing boots, thank God. . . . But each kick hurt like hell.
Santana wanted to help, and would have, had it not been for the big sailor with the ham-sized fists. The two of them had traded at least a dozen blows by that time, but in spite of the new cut over the noncom’s right eye, the swabbie showed no signs of tiring. If anything, the gunner’s mate appeared to be enjoying himself.
Finally, Santana locked both hands together, brought them down over the other man’s head, and jerked him in close. Then, having shifted his weight to his front leg, the legionnaire brought the other leg up in a classic side-knee strike. He felt the blow connect with the petty officer’s solar plexus, knew he had scored, and heard a shrill whistle. Somebody shouted, “Freeze! Military Police!”
Santana would have been happy to obey the order, except one of the men who had formerly been stomping Gomez, chose that particular moment to take a round-house swing at his head. The blow connected, the lights went out, and it felt as if someone had snatched the platform out from under the legionnaire’s feet. There was a long fall into darkness followed by a wonderful feeling of peace. The fight was over.