Starfist: FlashFire (33 page)

“Girl, you and your friends are in a world of hurt, d’ya know that?” Clabber grinned up at Charlette.

“My name’s Charlette.”

“Oh, pardon me all to hell! I gotta take all kinds of shit off them others but goddamned if I’ll take lip off a stupid cunt like you!” Charlette menaced him with the rifle but Clabber only grinned. “Think you’re pretty damn smart? Well, you ain’t! I know what you are, girl, you’re a goddamned spy! Worked in a laundry, my ass! You shacked up with that idiot Donnie to find out what was going on in Ashburtonville and you got stuck in town when we sieged Fort Seymour. Sheeyit!” he spit on the ground.

“That’s not true!” But if the police in Ashburtonville knew her true identity, they’d also know where Donnie was headed when he left the city. And Clabber had the only radio.

“Sheeyit, what do you take me for, girl? Lugs knows it too, and if he don’t kill ya, he’ll hand you over to the army. When
he’s
done with ya.”

The sun beat down intensely and the nausea that had been affecting Charlette recently returned suddenly. It was distracting and she felt the urge to urinate as well. Was she really pregnant or was it something she’d eaten, she wondered. She tried to recall how long since she’d missed her period. Maybe these indications were all false. Maybe her hormones were acting up. She really needed to have a doctor examine her.

Okay, she told herself, mind off your uterus and on the business at hand. She passed one hand across her brow and in that instant Clabber shot out a foot and knocked Charlette’s left leg out from under her. She fell heavily on her back. Clabber instantly got to his knees, grabbed the rifle, and pulled it by the barrel. Bad move; Charlette’s finger was still on the trigger. The rifle discharged with a roar and jumped clear of Charlette’s grasp. The next thing she knew someone was helping her to her feet.

“What happened?” someone asked as strong arms lifted her up.

“H-he—” she glanced down at Clabber, who lay on the ground. The charge had struck him under the chin and taken off his entire face.

“Did fer that sucker,” someone said and laughed nervously. They all stared down at Clabber’s body. These men had known Bud Clabber all their lives. “He wasn’t such a bad sort until he got mixed up with Lugs,” someone said.

“We all thought it was a good idea at the time, didn’t we?” Timor mused. “Now look where it’s got us —’n him,” he nudged Clabber’s body with his foot. Charlette bent over and vomited several times. “That’s okay, that’s okay,” Timor said, “he was useless anyways, Charlette.” Someone handed her back the rifle, safety on. “Well, fellas, I guess that screws Plan A.”

“What’s Plan B, Daddy?” Donnie asked.

“Plan B? Plan B is ‘highdiddle diddle, straight up the middle.’ Come on, roll old Clabber down into the gully ’n let the blackbirds feed on him. Let’s git back on the road, such as it is.”

“If they don’t have a breakdown or sumpin’, they’ll be here in the mornin’, Boss. The boys are already at Cuylerville and everything is quiet. There won’t be no more trouble from them ones that stayed

behind.”

Lugs shifted his Clinton Esplendido from the right to the left side of his mouth and squinted up at his lieutenant. His diamond-studded rings sparkled in the fading sunlight as he ran his fat fingers through the thinning hair on his head. “Rosco, tell the boys to take out the rest of that Pickens family, but no more retaliations against the people down there. I just want ’em scared. Same with those goddamned idiots on their way up here. Christ, Rosco, how we gonna get the next crop in if we kill off all the farmers? If that Clabber idiot survives this trip, give him the Pickens’s spread; if he don’t, we’ll give it to someone else to work. What’s the word from Ashburtonville?”

“The Confederation’s landed reinforcements, boss, lots of ’em.”

“Good! Good! Rosco, war is good for business. Uniforms don’t mean nuttin’ to us, right?”

“Right!”

“Money does,” Lugs nodded. “Soldiers got money. And what do soldiers do when they ain’t fightin’?”

“Fuck?”

Lugs grimaced and shook his head. “Well, besides that, during that, after that! Geez, Rosco, git yer mind outta the gutter for a minute!”

“Geez, boss, I was only thinkin’, we should diversify, go into the flesh business.”

“They smoke, lunkhead! They smoke thule, they smoke tobacco, they smoke grospalm leaves if they can’t get nuttin’ else. We are in the business of supplying people with that sumpthin’ else, which is our shit, our good smokes.” A long string of saliva trailed from his cigar as he removed it from his mouth. He wiped the spit off his lips with the back of one large hand and then wiped his hand on his trousers. “Howsomever, Rosco, you are thinkin’. The flesh business, I like that, I been thinkin’ the same thing. Smokes ’n sex, we get ’em at both ends. But later. Now tomorrow. I want them all alive, as much as possible. The men, send ’em back to Cuylerville under guard. The plantin’ season’s comin’ up. But that young woman and her husband,” he shook a massive, hairy forefinger at Rosco, “keep ’em up here. That girl is more than a ditzy cunt. I think we kin use her.”

“But do we need her husband, boss?”

Lugs emitted an exasperated sigh. “Yes, we do, if for no other reason than to keep her ’n ol’ Timor Caloon happy ’n growin’ his thule. Rosco, you know me! I only kill people when there’s profit in it. Now git yer ass out there ’n organize a little reception party for our visitors.”

Lugs’s real name was Luigi Flannigan. He got the nickname “Lugs” from the bottom leaves of the thule plant, an old term for them adopted from the tobacco growers. The sobriquet was appropriate to Flannigan because he always maintained a low business profile. He also maintained a very good intelligence system and good relations with authority, especially law enforcement, such as it was on Ravenette. In Bibbsville, he
was
the law.

Timor and his party spent a very uncomfortable night parked in some scrub on the outskirts of Bibbsville. As they perched huddled inside the car, Charlette asked Timor what his plan was for the morning. “I was gonna git in with Clabber, pretend to be there on business, just drive in peaceable like, kill Lugs, ’n leave same way we come in. But since you went ’n killed old Bud,” he grinned, “well, we’re here now. When it gits light we’ll take a gander at the factory. Take us five minutes to git our act together. Then we go in. We’ll have surprise on our side. Now, let’s raise the boys up and take a look at things.”

In the predawn they lay prone behind some native shrubs covering the top of a small hillock observing the vast system of curing barns, warehouses, and offices spread out below them.

“The day shift will be arriving in a little while,” Timor whispered. “We’ll join the crowd, kill the guards, drive in through the main gate, hit the headquarters building. Lugs has an apartment in the HQ. We’ll kill him if we can find him, kill as many of them as we can.”

“Father, won’t they follow us when we try to leave?” Charlette asked.

“We ain’t leavin’. Not directly, anyway. Either we git ol’ Lugs ’n take the head off this animal, or we take as many of them with us as we kin. Charlette, child, I took you along with us for a reason. That reason was to get you and Donnie out of Cuylerville and out of harm’s way. I knew if I tole you beforehand you’d never agree. Lissen. All these boys here,” he gestured at the other men spread out on the ground beside them, “they know we’re out for blood today ’n we’re gonna git it. But we ain’t livin’ like this no more, understand? We don’t care if we don’t make it outta there.”

“But—?”

Timor rolled over and took a fat envelope out of his shirt. “Inside here is enough money to set you ’n Donnie up wherever in this world you want to go, wherever you want to go someplace else, for that matter.” He thrust the envelope into Charlette’s hands. “Now gimme yer rifle, you too, Donnie. Then you two git on yer feet and walk over to town, it ain’t far and nobody’ll see you. You get tickets on the first flier outta here. If things go well, I’ll send for ya. If not, you git a new life together. Ma agreed to all this, Donnie, ’n if I don’t make it she kin take care of herself. When things quiet down, you kin send for her, where you wind up.

“Charlette, we Caloons ain’t as dumb as we look ’n act most of the time. Inside that envelope is information on a bank account I set up a while back in Donnie’s name. That account ain’t here, not on Ravenette. It’s in Fargo, back Earth,” he grinned. “You two kin live well on that money. Now off with you.”

“No,” Donnie said.

Timor slapped his son’s face so hard it brought tears to his eyes. He grabbed him by the hair and hissed, “Boy, you do what I tell you! That girl’s got my grandchild inside her ’n there’s no way I’m gonna let that child come to harm. If we fail here, there’s no way I’m gonna let you raise that kid back in that shithole Cuylerville. Now you git yer asses on into town. Charlette, you’re a soldier. You obey orders. I’m orderin’ the two of you to leave us here. Go. Right now. We’ll wait until you’re well on yer way before we attack.”

The airline ticket office was not yet open when the pair reached town. Worse, a big, hand-lettered sign in the window announced, “Due to wartime necessity, Bibbsville airport closed to civilian traffic until further notice.”

“Geez, there goes Plan A.”

“Now what?” Charlette asked.

“Plan B, which I just thought of: There’s a town about three hundred kilometers down the coast. We’ll git us a landcar at a Kertz rental later this morning ’n drive out there. We kin catch the
Figaro
there when she comes for a port call. After this morning it’ll be too hot for us to stick around here. But right now it’s too early. Let’s eat.”

Their rental broke down ten kilometers outside town and nothing Donnie could do would get it to start up again.

“What’s that place over there?” Charlette asked.

Donnie raised up from the engine compartment. “It’s a militia base, I think.”

“Maybe they can help with the car.”

Donnie considered, then closed the engine compartment. They were parked off the road, under a grove of trees in the early morning shade. A path led from the grove toward the camp. “Worth a try,” he said, wiping his hands on his trousers.

A military policeman, grinning unabashedly as he sized up Charlette, directed the pair to the camp motor pool where a harassed motor transport officer, Tamle, judging by his nametape, asked them what they wanted then said, “No way! We’re leavin’ this mornin’ for Ashburtonville! The seat of the war!” He sized up the pair. “Why don’t you two go over ’n see the recruiting sergeant? We could use a couple more people. We’re way under TO and E strength as it is.”

Charlette knew what that meant. She was suddenly struck by an idea. Outside she stopped Donnie. “If Daddy doesn’t make it, hasn’t made it, this place is excellent cover for us. You know that guy and his henchmen will come after us, no matter what, ’n we left a trail a blind man could follow. Let’s enlist, Donnie!”

“But they’s goin’ off to war, honeybun! We could get really fucked up in a war, darling!”

“Naw, Donnie, this is a militia unit. Nobody ever trusts them in the front lines. We can desert anytime. I’m gettin’ real good at that,” she grimaced. “What do you say?”

All around them soldiers rushed about, loading vehicles; others stood in formation, undergoing last-minute inspections. Sergeants shouted, officers pouted, to Donnie it looked like everyone was enjoying himself. “Well—”

The recruiting sergeant was just cleaning out his desk when the two entered his office. “You want to enlist?” he asked, goggle-eyed. “All right! Sure! Here, fill out the personal data on these papers. Are you two related or something?”

“We’re married,” Charlette answered proudly.

“Well, I’ll be damned! Husband and wife. That’s good, that’s good. Neither of you will be messing around with the single troopers then. You got yer marriage certificate on you?” Donnie dug inside a cargo pocket and produced the elaborate certificate Clabber had given him. “What do you do for a living?” he asked Donnie.

“Uh, I, uh was a courier over in Ashburtonville—”

“Can you drive?”

“Yessir!”

“It’s ‘sergeant,’ not ‘sir,’ I’m no officer, I work for a living. Okay, then put down under Occupation, ‘driver.’ How about you, miss?”

Charlette did not know what motivated her to respond, “I could make a pretty good spy.”

“We don’t need any of them just now. Kin you cook?”

“Yes, Sergeant!”

“Hmmm, you got a good command voice, lady. Okay, put down ‘cook’ under ‘occupation.’ ” He shouted for the medical officer in the next room. “Doc,” he told the elderly physician, “physical these two, would you? Have them fill out the clinical charts first and then I’ll have Captain Carhart come in and give them the oath. We got to hurry! We gotta be on the trucks by noon. Christ, I go all week without a single enlistment and now this!”

“I don’t have time for tests or any of that stuff,” the doctor told Charlette, “we don’t have any of that sophisticated automated stuff like they do in the big recruiting centers. We’re just a militia unit, part-time soldiers. You look to me like you’re in pretty good health. But let me listen to your insides and thump around on you a bit.” He listened to her heart and lungs and asked her brief questions about her medical history. He had her urinate into a glass which he held up to the light and examined closely. “Clear as a bell,” he said, making a note on her chart. “How do you feel?”

“Great!”

“Good,” he wrote something on her chart. “Yer married to that young fella that was just in here? You aren’t pregnant, are you?” the doctor asked.

“Nossir! Chubby, is all! But I hope to get pregnant. Can we do that in the army?”

“Sure, long as you do it off duty. You won’t have much time to do that where we’re going.” He scribbled something more on her clinical chart and handed it back to her. “Give this to the sergeant.”

Captain Carhart was an older man, in his fifties, Charlette guessed, blond hair thinning, a huge mustache on his upper lip. The sergeant addressed him as “Tom,” which Charlette, a regular soldier, thought bordered on military blasphemy, but then she reflected it was a militia unit after all, not the regular army.

“Well,” Captain Carhart told them after they’d taken the oath of enlistment, “welcome to the 441st Transportation Company, Loudon Rifles, the finest regiment in at least six counties. Now at least you got a job for the duration. Jim, get them to personnel and then quartermaster. Whatever training these two need they kin get it in the field. Since they’re married, have personnel put them both in the same platoon.”

On the way to the Bibbsville airport, Charlette wondered what the penalty would be for desertion to the enemy. Probably death. Well, she reflected, she’d tell her court martial she was only developing sources. Anyway, whatever might happen now, she was heading in the right direction. She rested her head on Donnie’s shoulder and whispered, “I wonder what happened to Daddy and the boys.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

So it went. The Coalition forces, with or without armor, would threaten or actually achieve a breakthrough, and a platoon, company, or even the entire FIST would be dispatched to kick them back —and hold their position once the rebels were driven away from the main defensive lines. And always, the orders were to drive the enemy away and
hold
in place.

The Marines hated having to hold; failure to pursue a beaten enemy gave that enemy a chance to regroup and attack again.

Brigadier Sturgeon was unhappily glad for Commandant Aguinaldo’s foresight in providing him with the Marines for a Whiskey Company. Glad because he
needed
the Whiskey Company Marines as replacements in the infantry battalion; unhappy
because
he needed to replace those Marines. Some of the platoons in 34th FIST’s infantry battalion suffered more than 50 percent casualties in the early actions. Granted, most of the casualties were quickly healed and returned to duty, but some of the Marines were more seriously injured, a few even killed.