The Transmigration of Souls (51 page)

A single, sudden, jarring thump of fear, liquid heart going
poke
,
poke
,
poke
in her chest. She looked over at Ling again and saw his blanched face, the look of abject terror in his eyes.

She smiled at him.

Then,
snap
.

o0o

Ling Erhshan standing, aghast, looking down at a little pile of dry white bones. Afraid to look closely. Afraid to reach out and...

Professor Ling standing alone in the middle of a desolate silver cloud, looking up at his leaden apparition. Waiting. Nothing. Fear like frantic indigestion dancing in his belly. A sudden urge to squat down and empty his bowels. Useless. Useless. You know how to deal with fear, Ling Erhshan. You’re already dead, Ling Erhshan. Dead and gone. Nothing more can happen to you now.

But a thin mist of fear, forming all around him, clouding his thoughts, blotting everything from its path. Yes there is. Yes there is. Image of the dull gray helix winding itself up into the trackless black sky. Winding away to Hell and gone and leaving him here. All alone. Forever.

“So.” Voice flat in the windless emptiness of Hell. “To whom do I have the horror of...” Freezing fright.
Honor
. I mean
honor
...

Probability manager
.

“Oh.” Ordinary title, conferring ordinary courage on him. “That’s a big job.”

You don’t know the half of it
.

An uncannily friendly voice. Like an arm around his shoulders, like the embrace of an old friend.
I’m half tempted to leave your ass right here, Ling. It’d serve you fucking right
.

Pulse of dismay, but... Strange way for a god to speak.

There are no gods, Ling Erhshan
.

Reading my mind!

What the Hell did you expect? Calm down, for Christ’s sake
.

For
Christ
’s sake? Bad news, if true. He said, “I’d... rather hoped for a nobler fate.”

Right. Any noble fate at all, so long as you can throw in a fuck or two along the way
.

He tried to stand with his eyes downcast, tried to fight off any lingering sense of embarrassment. Embarrassment that... that they know me so well? But, downward, there was only a fine view of his dangling little penis. And the voice, though soundless, seemed to laugh.

Shrivel right up, does it? I know how you feel. Tell you what. I’ll park your silly ass someplace interesting and get back to you later
...

Later? Hardly omnipotent at all...

But then,
snap
.

o0o

Echo. Echo. Echo. A faraway sound, as if someone, in some other part of the universe perhaps, had slammed a door behind her. Sitting up in bed, in her little cubby of a bedroom, back propped by stiff Corps-issue pillows, Astrid Kincaid looked up from her book, staring into the yellow-lit gloom, listening.

Distant Marine base sounds. A truck winding out through its gears, accelerating, engine sound rising in pitch, going through the drop-pause of a gear shift, rising again. That ratchetty sound meaning somebody new to the task. Sloppy training, as usual.

The rough, hollow sound of the wind, blowing round the eaves of buildings, whispering through telephone wires and power lines. Through the leafless branches of the few trees that’d been left in place when they’d put up the barracks area, thirty years earlier.

Bored sentries out there somewhere, walking their pointless lines. She looked back at the book, soon found herself staring at a meaningless regimentation of senseless characters, letters no more than lines of marching soldiers themselves, not forming up into words. I’m just turning the pages. Going through the motions of reading.

She shut the book, looked at the Corps-green cover.
Field Assault Tactics, Vol. 1: Desert Warfare
, eighth edition. No author. Government issue. It’s coming, God damn it. It’s coming. Somebody’s got to get them ready. A slight feeling of anger surfacing, useless God damned beer-swilling noncoms, college-graduate officers here because this was the best job they could get, industry rejecting them...

Somebody’s got to get them ready. Why does it have to be me? Because they’re the only damned friends you have. And because you took the damned job. She put the book down, stood up, looked out through her blinds at the night. Two a.m. I should be asleep. Hard work in the morning. Dark out there, like the dark between the stars. When did I lose that dream? When did we all lose it?

No answers, as usual. Dreams die. That’s that. Stood looking in the mirror. Fine signs of exquisite physical conditioning; the Corps’ given me time for that, at least. A sense of satisfaction, seeing a ripple of muscle, six lovely little domes around her belly button, framed by plain white cotton briefs, a plain, stretchy white bra. Some of the girls wear GI green. Too stiff for me.

Tired face, though. Doesn’t look like me anymore, staring out through those wide brown eyes. Girl in the mirror looking for something. I wonder what?

She clicked out the light from the switch by the door and stood in the semi-darkness, pale light coming in through the half-open blinds. Faint sound like a dog barking in the distance. Has to be a stray. No dogs on base since the latest round of budgets cuts did away with K-9.

All right. Did you hear a sound or not? Do you want to check it out or just crawl between the sheets for two or three zees before you roll their asses out onto the floor for another lovely day of drilling and drumming? She opened the door and slid out into the night.

Darker here, rows of bunks no more than black shadows, framed by lesser darkness. Soft sound of people breathing. Gentle snores. The loud snorers we had at the beginning either disciplined or doctored, as need be. Funny how many of the midnight chainsaws turned out to be women.

Funny how they got used to sleeping among each other, too. God damned stupid training films almost making it worse, an edited version of
Aliens
that left out the sexual relationship between the two troopers, when every damned person on fucking Earth has seen the original ten times over.

Good point, though. Not men. Not women. Not straights. Not gays. People. Soldiers. Comrades in arms. Not that some of them didn’t get into each other’s arms a little more often than the Pentagon liked. Control the cable or not, people have been watching reruns of
M*A*S*H
for sixty-five years...

A whisper of cloth from a far corner of the room, gentle, repetitive sliding suddenly stilled, as if people were holding their breaths, waiting for her to pass. Probably a couple of comrades right now. Jolsen and Rodriguez? Most likely. Well. I’ll march their asses off in the morning, let them think a little bit about whether humping each other is worth humping rocks the next day.

Tired, are we? Now imagine how you’d feel if this was combat.

What fucking combat, Sergeant? Hasn’t been a
real
goddam war in thirty years.

Wait patiently, boys and girls. The time will come...

Over to the far end of the bunkroom now, over to where a little rim of light showed under the latrine door. Somebody being a little careless here, unless there’s a crapping soldier inside. Hand on the door, listening. Soft sounds. Gentle snuffling sounds. Crying? Hell. Not supposed to be any crying in the damned Marines. She pushed the door open and went inside.

Bright white fluorescent light. Clean checkerboard of black and white tiles. Clear mirrors. Shiny white porcelain sinks. Dull green walls, dull green stalls around the toilets. Men grumbling at the lack of urinals, but, just maybe, liking the idea they could pee without some asshole watching.

Half a bare footprint, red decal on the floor, printed in bright blood. A pair of GI fatigue pants crumpled by the open door of one of the toilet stalls. More blood, a couple of droplets in the middle of the room. Figure standing in front of one of the sinks, scrap of bloody cloth by her feet, her underpants. Standing there, hunkered over herself, doing something, shirttail handing down over a shapely bare rump.

Short-cropped, feathery gray-black hair. Richardson. Mandy Richardson. Almost ready for her first stripe.

Kincaid walked forward, reached out to touch her, looking over her shoulder. Woman jerking slightly, looking up at her. Eyes wide, reactive. One hand at her crotch, clutching a big wad of bloody toilet paper to herself.

“Are you all right?” Stupid-ass question. “This doesn’t look like it’s just an unusually bad period, Mandy.” Doesn’t look like she’s giving herself an abortion, either.

Whispered: “I’m sorry, Sergeant. I...”

Look into her eyes, then. Hard red anger there, raw anger of the sort that would eat you alive if you didn’t get rid of it somehow. She said, “You want me to take you over to sick bay?” Ask. Let her know she’s in control.

Fear then. Trouble. “No. I’m, uh...” A quick headshake, eyes closing briefly. “No.”

“Let me see.”

Clutching the now-soaked toilet paper tightly to herself. Still bleeding, whatever it is. “Look, I just want to...”

“Get over on the table, private. Let me look.” Stubborn resentment in those eyes now. “Either that or I take you to sick bay.”

Sudden defeat filling the eyes with agony. Shoulders slumping, back curved, hand with the toilet paper relaxing a bit, little rivulet of blood starting down one thigh. Tears in her eyes, eyes closing.

Softly: “Get up on the table, Mandy. Let me help.”

Teary eyes opening, looking at her. Angry: No one can help. But pleading, as well. Little girl looking to her mother...

Got her up on the table, hand pulled out of the way, gently fingering her crotch, pubic hair matted with blood that was starting to clot, like a mass of thick red jelly. Pulling labia apart, feeling the young woman wince. Biting her lip. Trying to be a brave little soldier, but...

Hmh. No real damage. Just a scratch, like you’d get from a fingernail, little tiny strip of skin peeled away, right next to her clit. Crotch wounds like head wounds, bleed like a bastard...

She wrapped a length of clean toilet paper around her hand, pressed her fingers right over the little cut. “You’re OK, Mandy.”

Eyes shut. Nodding. Probably knew she wasn’t hurt bad. Not so stupid she wouldn’t go to the medics if she thought there was a hemorrhage involved. Just a little scratch. Probably no lacerations inside or... anything. Shadows on her face, though. Bruises forming? We’ll know in the morning.

“You want to tell me what happened?”

Biting her lip. No, Sergeant, I don’t want to tell. Just leave me alone, please.

“OK. I damn well
know
what happened, Mandy. You want to tell me who?”

No.

“I expect my soldiers to be able to take care of themselves, Mandy. Doesn’t matter whether it’s brawls, combat, or just a little rough trade.”

Silence. Then, “I’m sorry, Sergeant. I didn’t mean to make trouble.”

Trouble. Christ. The upbringing of girls. “Fuck the trouble. Look, we can take care of this the Corps way or the soldiers’ way, but it’s got to be taken care of. Your call.”

More silence.

“Come on, Mandy. You change your mind on some asshole when he figured it was too late for you to back out?”

Biting her lip again. “It was an officer.”

Well, now. Got to tread a little lightly here. Mirth forced into her voice: “So you couldn’t fight off some sissy lieutenant or another? Which one? Or were there ten of the little shitskies?” Little shitskies, right out of rot-see...

The woman opened her eyes. “Captain Bergeron.”

Well, shit. No, little Mandy Richardson wouldn’t be able to fight off Mark Bergeron, nor would I, all by my lonesome. Bergeron a slab of meat the size of a TV superhero, capped at Captain, having talked his way into the new OCS program from the rank of tech-sergeant a few years back. Old Corps. Old-style manly man among manly men. Lip curling in the barroom, Fuckin’
pussies
in the Marines.

And more than a little bitter because he didn’t seem to be getting his fair share of those pussies. Not the way he wanted them, at any rate. She exhaled a held breath. “OK, Mandy, let’s get you cleaned up. Stay away from sick-call. I’ll go light on you for the next few days and... Well. We’ll take care of this when we’re ready.”

Grateful look in her eyes, then, but the anger and hurt were still there. Most of all the hurt.

o0o

Six of them. Six pairs of beady eyes looking back at her out of the quasi-darkness. Stars in the sky, crickets chirping in the bushes. Little frogs croaking high-pitched somewhere, frogs in a drainage ditch by the side of the road. Spring peepers, I think they’re called. And six pairs of women’s eyes, shining in the ambient light.

Six women with bruises, bloody noses. One broken arm, that mutter through clenched teeth by Cassie Smithers: You fucking bastard, Bergeron.

Bitch. I’ll get you bitches for this.

Get us. What does he think is about to happen? He knows
why
this is happening. But, I guess, he figures we’re just going to kick him around a little, leave him out here for the sentries to find, naked maybe, nicely sunburned, mad as Hell.

Dull pain in her back, off center to the right, where he’d nailed her with a sharp kidney punch. Meant to hurt me bad, and I’ll be pissing blood in the morning. But he wasn’t quite fast enough.

Somehow unfair that God set things up this way. Seven God-damned women to take down one fat man, tie him hand and foot...

She could feel his heart beating under her hands now, pounding in his chest, slowing from the exertion, calming down as she held him in her arms from behind. Probably likes the way my tits feel, pressed into his back.

He said, “You’re going to be in a lot of trouble over this, girls.”

Silence. Beady eyes looking at him.

“What, you think I don’t know who you are because it’s dark? Hell, I know every little grunt you girls make. Smithers. Kincaid. Lateesha Reynolds, you fat pig. Even little cunt Richardson...”