PAPA DON'T 'LOW

Part 1 of 4

by

Christopher Stasheff

Copyright 1992

 

The Dreadnought was big, but it was still outgunned by the six Hothri cruisers, especially since they were coming at it from all sides—and above and below, too.

"Out!" the lieutenant bawled.  "Those ants need something else to think about!"

But he was talking to their backsides; Papa had kicked his platoon into motion before the lieutenant finished his exclamation point.

They shot into the scout, catching grab-handles and swinging down into their chairs, stretching their shock webbing over themselves, then sitting, hunched over and tense, eyes glittering, watching Papa.

"Any second," Papa growled, still upright, hanging onto a grab in the ceiling.  "They'll shove off any…"

Then a huge boot kicked them all in the seats of their pants and, for a moment, they had weight again—too much weight, as the little vessel shot out of its berth in the dreadnought, spearing straight toward a Hothri cruiser.

"Okay, web off," Papa said.  "We'll be boarding in a minute."  He didn't bother with the "if"—if the Hothri didn't shoot them down before they grappled; if they were still alive when they hit the bigger ship.  They all knew that, or thought they did.

But Papa knew it for real.  He'd been in a landing ship that got blown.  He was the only one who'd had the presence of mind to crack his emergency oxygen, the only one who'd lived—and would keep living, because Papa was a survivor.

Master Sergeant Pepe Stuart, alias Papa, had been a marine for ten years, and had climbed the ladder of noncom rank by the simple process of staying alive when all the other Aristan marines were dying.  Of course, he was good, too—a good fighter and a good boss.  More importantly, though, he had an instinct for staying alive, and he took his platoon along with him.  He knew when to hide and when to hit... and where, and how hard.  He fought and bled, but he came away—and went back to fight again.

Their ship slammed into the cruiser with a jolt likely to jar his implants loose.  Papa turned to yank the hatch open—then stepped back out of the way, because Mulcahy was kneeling right behind him with the cutting torch.  He triggered it as Papa stepped clear, and the beam sprang to life, connecting his hands with the side of the Hothri ship.  The coherent light heated the armor plate cherry-red, nothing more—but the liquid explosive that sprayed on just behind it began to roar with its continual, directional detonation, blasting the armor plate ahead but nothing behind.  Then Mulcahy closed the circle, and the torch winked out.  He tossed it aside, leaping to his feet and leveling his rifle—just as the explosion stopped, and the circle of armor fell out with a clang they could feel in their feet, though they couldn't hear it through their helmets, or the vacuum around them.

But they could hear Papa bellow "In!" through their earphones.

In he went, jumping through the glowing circle with balletic grace, incongruous on a body hurtling like a bullet, which was why the Hothri's first shot went over his head and his shoulder slammed into the giant cricket's midriff.  It was a big target, a little taller than himself but half again as long, its abdomen sticking out four feet in back, its thorax leaning forward with a grin beneath its black-plate eyes and long arms reaching for him with three-fingered hands—armored hands, natural bug-case armor with razor-sharp serrated fringes along their backs.  Its roar echoed around him in the pea soup that the aliens called atmosphere, the murky red they used for light—but the monsters were snapping their helmets closed now as their fog drained into Papa's ship.

That delay was just what the platoon needed.  They were through the hole and all around now, the air staccato with bursts of fire, ripping through Hothri suits and Hothri flesh.  Then the monsters rallied with whistling screeches that must have meant fury, and tore into the men.  Papa saw a sword-tipped barrel slashing toward his eyes, and he rolled aside, leveling his own rifle and pulling the trigger.  The Hothri's head vanished in a splatter that Papa didn't stay to see—he had rolled to the side and ducked, just in time, as another Hothri blasted at him with a scatter gun.  There was a sharp sting in his shoulder, a reek of methane in his nose, and Papa knew his helmet had been holed.  He knew their smog had enough oxygen to keep him going for a little while, though—certainly long enough.  He knocked the Hothri's shotgun up with his rifle barrel, slammed the butt into the cricket's helmet, then reversed the weapon and pulled the trigger.

Then, the white-hot fury seared through his back, and everything went black.

 

* * * * *

 

He woke up seeing white.  For a moment, he panicked, thinking he was blind, and swung his head to yell for help.  But he saw a door, and a pale-yellow wall.  That steadied him; wherever he was, it wasn't a ship and it wasn't Hothri.  After all, he was breathing sweet air with no methane or chlorine, though he didn't have a helmet.

Who did?

Who had taken his suit off him?

Or had they?  He looked down and saw a sheet, a blanket—and something in him relaxed.  He was in a hospital; he was safe.  More importantly, there were the right number of lumps under the blanket—he had both legs.  He held up his hands, relieved to see they were both there, then ran them over the rest of his body.  Everything was there, everything seemed to be in good order.  His back was a long, flaming ache, which must have been why they had him propped on his side, but all his pieces seemed to be right.

The door opened, and a nurse came in.  Not worth fighting for, but still awfully good to see.  Anyway, she smiled when she saw his eyes open.  "Just a second, Sergeant.  I'll get the doctor."  The door closed.

And Papa was tense.  If she'd gone for the doctor, there was something she wasn't supposed to tell him.  But what?  He was all here!

The door opened again, and the man of medicine came in, wearing long, white coveralls and a nice set of exhaustion lines.  Nonetheless, he managed a smile.  "Good morning, Sergeant."

"Good morning, Doc," Papa answered.  "Which one?"

That brought the doctor up short.  "Which what?"

"Which morning?"

"Oh."  The doctor sat down in the bedside chair.  "Wednesday, Sergeant."

Papa stared.  "Two whole days?  Was I out that long?"

The doctor nodded.  "It took us a little while to rebuild your back, Sergeant.  New tissue takes time to grow, even when it's forced."

"I knew there was something wrong back there.  What'd the crickets do to me, Doc?"

"Basically burned your whole upper back.  We thought there might have been some damage to your hindbrain, but all your reflexes checked out.  How do you feel?"

Papa frowned.  "Logy, slow in the head."

"That's the hangover from the sedatives.  If you find anything unusual in the way you think, any strange surges of emotion, let us know—but we think you're okay."

"Think?"  All Papa's defenses went up.  "That means you're not sure."

"Not yet—but we have every reason to think you'll recover completely."

"When?"

The doctor blinked.  "Excuse me?"

"How long before you send me back to combat?"

"Oh."  The doctor relaxed.  "Can't say, really.  Could be a month, could be six.  But figure you've got at least thirty days R & R, Sergeant.  You've earned it."

"But now, wait a minute, no!"  Then, for a second, Papa forgot what he'd wanted to say.  But only for a second; he knew that what the doctor had said was wrong somehow, that it wasn't what Papa should do.  "No, now... you see…"  His brain seemed to be working in low gear, as though he were pushing his thoughts through molasses.  "See, it's... it's…"

"What is it?"  The doctor's gaze sharpened, weariness falling away.  "What, Sergeant?"

What was it?  Then Papa remembered.  "My pluh... platoon.  My mmmenn, they nnneeed meee... you've got to…"

There was a black space, then, and he found himself opening his eyes again.  The doctor was standing up, his face only a couple of feet away and directly overhead, the ceiling behind him—and there were two nurses, too.  How had the second one gotten there?  But his brain was still fuzzy, very, and it was a major chore to collect his wits enough to ask what he needed to.  But what was that?  Oh, yes.  "Why... nurses?"

"Just in case we need her.  And this is Dr. Lakin, Sergeant.  She only has to finish her test, now."

"Test?"  Then Papa realized there were gossamer tendrils running from someplace above him to the younger nurse—but no, she was a doctor.  Why?  He lifted his hands to touch his head, find out where those threads went…

The doctor stopped him with a gentle touch.  "Please, Sergeant.  The test's almost over; then she'll remove the threads.  But you do need to wait a little longer."

Papa decided that was okay, if the doctor said so.  Obviously, what was being done was what needed to be done, and everything was okay.  That meant he could sleep for a while, so he cheerfully slipped back into oblivion.

 

* * * * *

 

When he woke, the door was stained orange.  He realized that had to be the rays of the setting sun reflecting off the wall—must be a window behind him.  He was amazed at how clearly and quickly he was thinking.  That made him realize that he shouldn't be amazed, which made him remember how slowly his mind had been working when last he woke.

Then he remembered the hat check.

He sat bolt upright and hit the call-bell.

The door opened in two minutes, and a new nurse looked in.  "Oh!  You're awake, Sergeant!"

"Yeah."  Papa frowned.  "What happened, Nurse?"

She stared, at a total loss.  "Happened?"

"They gave me some kind of test."  She shook her head.  "Not on my shift.  Hold on, I'll get your doctor."

Papa wanted to protest that she could look it up in the records, but the door closed, and he had to choose between being a grouchy patient and hitting the call bell again, or being grouchy but patient.  He chose the latter—after all, he knew what it was like to be just taking orders.

Finally, the door opened and the doctor came in.  He still looked exhausted, but now he looked fresh-wakened, too.  Papa felt remorse.  "Shouldn't you go home, Doc?"

"Not when I'm needed.  They gave me an apartment on the top floor."  The doctor stepped over, pulling out a tiny light, lifted Papa's eyelid, and blinded him with a pocket-sized beacon.  Through the glare, Papa asked, "What happened?"

The doctor snapped off the light, letting go of the eyelid and straightening up, giving Papa a look that weighed how much he could take.

Papa braced himself.  "I've seen men die, Doc, and I've seen the color of my own blood, by the bucket.  I can take it."

The doctor nodded once, satisfied, but he was still braced as he said, "You had a seizure."

 

* * * * *

 

Not the last one, as it turned out.  Papa had another that night, and a third the next day.  Then they hit the right pill, and he didn't have another one for a week.  They couldn't take a chance on fixing the brain damage, because they might have caused more while they were trying—but after that first week, they had him charted well enough to install a little gadget inside his skull, and he never had another one.

"But it might break down, Sergeant.  You might run out of power supplies.  It might be damaged if you fell."

Papa braced himself again.  "I can take it, Colonel.  Hit me straight."

The colonel's face was stone, no matter how he felt—probably pretty badly, if he had to glower that way.  "You can't be a Marine anymore, Sergeant."

"What?"

"You can't."  The colonel braced himself against the man's anguish.  "The gadget might fail in the middle of combat, and you might shake up your whole unit."

"Shake up Marines?"

"You saw your own sergeant shot when you were a corporal," the colonel reminded.  "How did it hit you?"

"I was shaken, but I picked up the pieces and commanded my squad!  We finished out the mission!"

"But you might not be lucky enough to have a corporal who is that good."  The colonel shook his head.  "Or you might have a seizure during a night attack—and you would do some yelling when it happened, Sergeant.  You could give away your platoon's position."

That brought Papa up short.  Taking a chance on death in battle was one thing—he'd done it every time he went out.  But risking his men's lives was another matter.

"It's not the end, Sergeant."  The colonel's voice softened.  "There are defense industries.  You can still serve."

"But not in uniform!  The Corps has been my life, sir!"  Then Papa sat up straighter, a glint in his eye as the idea hit.  "If I can serve out of the Corps, I can serve in it!  Give me a desk job, sir!  Give me a way to back up the poor rankers who have to go out there!"

The colonel sat frozen, his face still set in concrete while he weighed the chances.  There was a time when keeping a disabled man in uniform could have resulted in his accidentally being assigned back to combat.  But that couldn't happen now; once he was coded as a non-combatant, the computers would keep him at a desk.  And if he stayed in, he'd have all the fanatic dedication of a convert whereas, if he were cashiered, he'd grow bitter, and might even just sit on the sidelines—or worse.

"All right, Sergeant.  You're back in.  But you might not like it."

"That doesn't matter."  Papa felt a huge surge of relief, even gratitude.  "As long as I can serve."

 "Oh, you'll serve, all right," the Colonel said.  "You'll serve."

 

* * * * *

 

Papa ripped the cover off the crate.

"Look," the delivery man said, "it doesn't matter whether you like 'em or not.  That's what the Quartermaster sent, so that's what you get."

"Might be."  Papa lifted a rifle out, sighted along the barrel, checked the action, then took out the clip and swapped it for one from his pocket.

The deliveryman frowned.  "What do you think you're doing?  That's not part of the shipment!"

"No, but it's for the same make and model.  What's the matter, friend?  Afraid it won't work?"

"Me?"  The deliveryman stared.  "Hell, no!  What difference does it make to me?  I just deliver 'em!  Come on, now, sign, okay?"

"If it works."  Papa sighted at the target on the other side of his depot and squeezed.  The huge cavern filled with the drumming of magnum rounds, then went silent.

The delivery man stared at Papa's hand, the trigger finger still tight.  "What the hell did you do?"

"Nothing," said Papa, "but the rifle did.  It jammed."

The deliveryman swallowed.  "Look, this ain't no business of mine!  I just haul 'em, Sergeant, I don't make 'em!"

"You can just haul this crate back, then," Papa said.  "I don't accept delivery."

The delivery man began to sweat.  "Look, if you don't sign, they'll think I'm goldbricking!"

"Not if you give me a different case."

"I can't do that," the delivery man objected.  "The rest of the load is for Company D."

"So?"  Papa waved at the back of the truck.  "They get this crate, I get one of theirs.  Same guns, right?"

"Well, sure, but…"

"So you're giving them what they ordered.  What's the problem?"

"But we're giving them guns that won't fire!"

"And it's okay to give them to us?"  Papa hurried on while the delivery man was hung up on common sense.  "Let their quartermaster find that out.  It's his worry, not mine—or yours."

"That makes just enough sense to sound wrong."  The delivery man frowned, eyes straying to his load.  "So what do I do if he turns 'em down?"

"You take 'em back to Stores, with his note saying why he won't take delivery."

"And let his tail get in the sling, not yours?"  The deliveryman turned back.  "I think I understand how you're thinking now, Sergeant."

Papa shrugged.  "Maybe nobody's in a sling.  Maybe the quartermaster will send 'em back to the factory."

"Come on, Sarge!  You know factories don't take things back!"

"Maybe.  Or maybe nobody ever sends 'em back."  Papa grinned.  "Come on, Corporal—take a chance.  Start a revolution."

"Start it?  You did that.  All I can do is get caught in it!  Give me one reason why I should, Sarge—just one!"

"For the guys on the line."

The delivery man just stared at him for a moment.  Then he said, "I did say just one, didn't I?"

"Want another one?"

"That'll do."  The deliveryman turned away and swung another crate of rifles out of the truck, slamming it down at Papa's feet.  "Have another, Sarge.  One for the road."  He picked up the crate of duds and swung them back aboard the truck, then turned to find Papa calmly stripping the packing off one of the rifles from the new crate.  "Aw, come on!  Don't tell me you're not going to accept delivery on that one, too!"

"Oh, sure I will."  The Sergeant slapped a new clip into the rifle and raised it to his shoulder.  "Just as soon as I make sure it works."

 

* * * * *

 

He had to salute; it was a lieutenant.  He even had to try to stand up behind his desk, though there wasn't really room enough.

"At ease."  But the lieutenant's frown didn't seem to inspire a relaxed attitude.  "What kind of racket are you running, Sergeant?"

"Sir?"  Papa kept his eyes on the lieutenant's, but noticed the quartermaster's patch on his pocket.  Not that he needed it—he knew the clerks from his own brigade.

"All the rejections, Sarge!  You keep refusing deliveries!"

"Beg pardon, sir.  I've never sent anything back."

"No, but you've sent 'em on to other companies!  What's the matter, Sergeant—didn't you ever stop to think that every crate of good material you get, is one less for another company?"

"Not my problem," Papa said, straight-faced.

"No, but you sure as hell make it mine!"  The lieutenant's face reddened.

 

* * * * *

 

"It's simple."  The captain spread his hands.  "You keep rejecting the duds, and instead of each company having a crate or two to scrap, you don't have any, and all the others have more.  Let it go long enough, and the Tenth will be the only company in the battalion whose rifles work."

Papa dug his heels in while his stomach sank.  "Just doing my job right, sir."

"Yes, you are."  The colonel picked up a stylus and bounced its tip on the desk.  "And you know there's only one thing to do about it, don't you?"

The sunken stomach turned into a hollow pit, but Papa still didn't back down, even though visions of civilian clothes flitted through his head.  "Yes, sir.  I know."

"Good."  The captain nodded.  "Then go back and clean out your desk, Sarge, and move your gear over to company HQ.  You just became battalion quartermaster."

Papa stared, unable to believe his ears.  "Sir?"

"What's the matter?"  The captain looked up with a frown.  "Don't understand orders?"

"But, sir.  There's a lieutenant in that job!"

"Good point—you just got promoted.  Congratulations, Lieutenant Stuart."

The room seemed to become a little unstable.  "Uh—Sir!  Thank you!  I'm... I'm... But!"

The captain leaned back with a sigh.  " 'But,' Lieutenant?"

"We already have a battalion quartermaster!"

"We developed a sudden and urgent need for him in one of the orbital stations.  You'll just have to manage somehow, Lieutenant.  Dis—missed!"

 

* * * * *

 

Alice had been in combat, but she'd only seen one mission—and she'd been terrified every minute, as much by the appearance of the Hothri as by the danger.  Then her right arm had been burned off at the elbow.  She remembered screaming and blacking out—she remembered, but she tried not to.  She remembered waking up, too, seeing what was left of her arm, and screaming again.  That time it was the sedative jet that had put her to sleep—and after that, she remembered the counseling, the exercises to get her used to her prosthetic arm, and her amazement at how much it looked and felt like her real one.  That was why she hadn't opted for a graft, of course—she would have felt very strange with arms that didn't match.  The prosthetic felt like the real thing; the only time she knew it wasn't was when she had to pick up something heavy.  The mechanical arm was much stronger than the real one.  That had taken some getting used to, and a good many broken drinking glasses.

Now, a year later, she could do everything with it that she'd been able to do before.  But it was her right arm, and the Navy didn't feel like taking chances on a malfunction, so she'd been rotated back to the Reserves and given a civilian job.  All in all, she guessed she was happy about it, but there was always that sneaking guilt.

Well, if she couldn't be firing a rifle in Arista's defense, she could at least be building them.  She tried to relax into the boredom and let it pass while she let her gaze rove over the tell-tales, watching for red lights.  There was scarcely ever any trouble—the robot factory was so completely efficient!  Metal roared as the truck dumped into the giant hopper, but the tell-tales said it was all feeding down to the assembly line without trouble.

Something rang like a gong, then clattered, and Alice turned back, alerted.  Sure enough, a bar of pig iron had slipped between the truck's funnel and the hopper.  She jumped back, judging its trajectory and stepping aside just in time to avoid its hitting her toes.  Then she scooped it up with the prosthetic arm—so much stronger than her real one!—and started to toss it back into the hopper.

But she stopped with a frown, hefting the bar.  It felt lighter than it should have.  Flesh and blood couldn't have told the difference, but the circuits in the prosthetic were sensitive to very slight differences in weight and texture.  And the pig iron felt wrong.  She frowned, looking at it closely, and saw the multitude of tiny, almost microscopic, bubbles, as though the iron were foamed.  It didn't really matter, she supposed—the machines on the assembly line would melt it down or forge the air out of it, wouldn't they?  But it did bother her that the company was paying for solid pig iron, but getting foam.

Or maybe they weren't.  Maybe they were paying for foam, and getting what they paid for.  She summoned resolve and tossed the pig back into the hopper—it was none of her business.  That was what the company had managers for, and she wasn't about to make a fool out of herself by reporting something they already knew.

But it nagged, and nagged—maybe they didn't know.  She just had to tell someone—but who?  Nobody from the company, of course.  But who?

Lunch break came, and with it, Clothilde.  Alice had to reconcile pleasure in human conversation with a friend, with her irritation—Clothilde was sure to try to set her up with another man.  She always did.  Clothilde had finally married, and was now evangelizing with all the fervor of a convert, trying to make sure all her friends were as happy as she.

The trouble was, Alice wasn't at all sure a man could make her happy.  Not judging by the ones she had met, and the few she had dated.  She supposed she was just too plain to attract the really good men—and she wasn't about to settle for anything less.

Sure enough, they'd scarcely sat down before Clothilde started in.  "Jerry introduced me to this wonderful friend of his last night, Alice!  His old sergeant, who was injured and pushed out before Jerry was."

Clothilde's husband was out with an honorable discharge, of course—too badly wounded to be patched up and sent back.  Those were the only men around—except for soldiers on leave.  Inwardly, Alice sighed and braced herself.  She managed a tired smile.  "Really?  I thought men didn't like their sergeants."

"They do after the sergeant's saved their lives a few times.  He thought Lieutenant Stuart was an angel, or maybe a devil."

"Or both."  Alice smiled.  "But I thought you said he was a sergeant."

"Well, he's a lieutenant, now.  They kept him in, at a desk job—he made too much of a fuss when they tried to discharge him."

Alice stared.  "He was that badly wounded, and he wanted to stay in?"

Clothilde nodded.  "Crazy, huh?  That's why I figured you wouldn't want to date him."

"No," Alice said slowly, thrown off balance almost as much by the denial as by the strangeness of the man Clothilde described.  "No, I think I might like to meet him."  Then, quickly, "But not a date, of course."

Clothilde's eyes lit with the joy of the huntress who had bagged her prey.  "Not a date," she agreed.

 

* * * * *

 

Papa frowned.  The tank looked right, drove right, and fired right—but felt wrong.  Somehow, he just knew there was something bad about it.  "Let me keep it around for a couple of days."

"Heaven's seven's, Lieutenant!" the salesman snapped, exasperated.  "If your corps accepted it, you have to accept it."

Papa's hackles went up, and his head went down.  "Not if I don't think it will do everything I need, Mr. Snell.  No."

"Oh, come off your high horse!  What difference could it make?  Who the hell is gonna use a tank in a space war, for crying out loud?"

Papa turned a very unfriendly gaze on the salesman.  "Then why is your company making them?"

"Why…" the salesman floundered.  "Because the Force is buying them!"

"Does that give you the right to make junk?"

"Look, Lieutenant."  Snell drew a deep breath and fought for calm.  "I don't make them.  I just sell them."

"Not to me, you don't."  Papa turned back and scowled at the tank.

"Quit stalling, Lieutenant!"  Snell decided to let the whip show.  "There's a contract!  If we deliver them, you have to take what we give you!"

Papa shook his head slowly.  "If I had to, they wouldn't have sent you down here to talk to me into it."

"Just because you won't accept perfectly good material…"

"The first one shattered its barrel on the third shot," Papa reminded him, "and the second one lost its left tread in two hours."

"But they'll never be used!"

"They might," Papa said.  "We might have to use them.  We hope we won't, because we'll only need them if the Hothri smash through our defenses and land an invasion force.  But if we do need them, they have to kill Hothri, not us."

"They couldn't possibly kill…"

"That one over in Company D, that blew up its breech, killed its whole crew."

Snell reddened.  But he bit his tongue and swallowed, then smiled and said, "We can't let you keep it if you don't accept it, Lieutenant."

"Fine!"  Papa waved a hand.  "Take it back."

Snell stared.  "What?"

"I said, take it back."

"But if you don't accept any of our tanks, we'll lose the contract!"

Papa shrugged.  "Not my problem."

Snell clamped his jaw shut and waited until the wave of anger passed, then said, "Two days, Lieutenant.  I'll see you in two days."

 

* * * * *

 

Alice had never been in Clothilde's apartment before—but then, Clothilde hadn't been in it that long, herself.  She'd only moved in when she had married Jerry, a few months earlier.  Until then, she'd only qualified for a cubicle in the unmarried women's dorm.  Now they qualified for two rooms and a kitchenette, and Clothilde was working toward three.

For the time being, though, the single front room was arranged as both a parlor and a dining room.  Jerry was sitting in one armchair, laughing and talking with a man in uniform.  They broke off and looked up as Alice came in and the eyes of the man in uniform widened.  Then he was out of the chair and helping her off with her coat, all smiles.  "Hi.  I'm Pepe Stuart."

"Lieutenant, this is Alice Biedermann."  Clothilde seemed irritated.

"Oh, I'm sorry, Clothilde!  I should have waited to be introduced."  The lieutenant turned toward the closet, but Jerry had caught up with him, chuckling.  He took the coat, saying, "No way, Papa.  You let the host do his own job, huh?  Watch out for him, Miss—he eats pretty girls for breakfast."

"Lunch," Papa corrected.  "It's privates I eat for breakfast.  Only I'm on a diet, since they kicked me upstairs."  But his eyes were on Alice the whole time.  "Pay attention to him, Little Red Riding Hood.  I'm the wolf."

Alice couldn't help it; she laughed, and her shyness evaporated.  For the first time in her life, she felt pretty.

They had a wonderful evening, talking and laughing well past midnight, and Papa even managed to make his war stories seem funny.  When he offered to take her home at the end of the evening, and Jerry started to object, Clothilde caught her husband under the short ribs with an elbow.  He said, "Wuff!" and forced a smile as Clothilde said, "Yes, that would be very nice, Lieutenant.  Do make sure she gets home safely, now."

He might not have—but on the way, Alice suddenly realized she was right next to a man who could tell her she was being silly.  "All those stories about your job, Lieutenant—l owe you a few about mine."

"Oh?"  No amusement, no belittling—he was instantly interested.

She suspected most of that was politeness, but she tried anyway.  "I'm a cyborg, see, and..."

"Uh, problem with definitions."  Papa took her hand.  "You're delightfully organic."

She glanced at him, almost gratefully, and blushed.  "That's the one that was shot off, Lieutenant."

Papa stared at it, then squeezed the fingers gently.  "Doesn't feel any different."

"But it does to me—it's much more sensitive."

Papa dropped her hand like a hot rock.  "Oh.  Sorry."

"Not at all; I liked it.  So what kind of job do you give a girl with a super right arm, Lieutenant?"

He frowned up at her, not understanding.  "I give.  What kind?"

"Super in a weapons factory.  I get to make sure the incoming steel bars feed into the production line properly."

Suddenly, she knew she had his complete and total attention, but not as a woman.  "Do you really!"

"Yes."  She forced a smile.  "Every now and then, I have to pick up a pig that drops out, and throw it back in."

"Noisy but absorbing work."

"Yes."  She fought to keep the smile.  "But since this arm is so much more sensitive, I get a surprise now and then."

His gaze bored into hers.  "Nice surprise?"

Alice shivered.  "I don't know.  Just odd, I guess.  But every third bar seems to be... foam, if that makes sense.  Steel foam."

"Full of bubbles," Papa grated.  "Perfect sense—for the company."

"But it doesn't matter, does it?  The air gets beaten out in the forges."

"Sure."  Papa gave her a hard smile.  "But the company only gets maybe half the steel it paid for."

"So the company does lose!"

"No.  They just buy more steel, and charge the government a higher price for the finished weapons."

"But... the government doesn't care, does it?"

Papa shrugged.  "You tell me.  They could buy three rifles with the money they're paying for two.  Who wins?"

"Well, the company, I suppose…"

"No.  The Hothri."

Alice stared, appalled, the more so because he had finally put into words what she'd been worrying about, herself.  "It's not that important!"

"Oh, yes it is," Papa said softly.  "But what worries me is, what other short cuts is the company taking?"

"Maybe none," Alice said, but her stomach was shrinking into a knot.

"I hope not," Papa said.  "If they do, though, I'd like to know about it."

She stared at him, and his eyes seemed to be drawing her in, enveloping her, compelling her…

She tore her gaze away, looking at the buildings they were passing, recognized the doorway with relief.  "This is my dorm, Lieutenant."

"So I see," Papa said, with regret.

She turned back to him, forcing a smile and holding out a hand.  "Well... good night, Lieutenant."

"Good night."  He ignored the hand, reaching out, almost touching her chin, but not quite.  "And if you see anything else funny, let me know, will you?"

"Yes, Lieutenant," she said, feeling chilled inside.

But his sudden smile thawed her as he said, "And that has got to be the world's worst excuse for getting another date with a pretty lady.  So find something wrong fast for me, huh?"

She managed to smile again.  "Of course, Lieutenant, if you put it that way.  If I can't find one, I'll make one."

"Thanks, Little Red," he said softly, "but you really should be more careful about wolves."

She would, Alice decided firmly as she closed the door behind her.  She would be very careful about this particular wolf—but maybe not the way he'd meant.

 

* * * * *

 

Papa found the flaw on the morning of the second day, when he tried to start the tank and the gauge read empty.  It took him another half-hour to find out that the power plant was still functioning just fine, but with no outlet for the energy it had built up.  The linkage had burned out.

"A bomb."  The general seemed very happy about it.  "It was a rolling, shooting bomb.  It would have killed its whole crew, and half the ratings near it."

"Sir."  Papa stood at parade rest, eyes carefully focused an inch above the general's left shoulder.

"Oh, sit down, Lieutenant!  You're not an NCO anymore."  The general leaned back, studying Papa as he sat warily in the straight chair before the acre of desk.  "You realize you're creating difficulties, don't you?"

"No, sir."

"Oh, really?"  The general raised one eyebrow.  "And may I ask why you think we can't get enough tanks to man every post?"

"Because Industrial Munitions isn't producing enough good ones, sir."

"Not producing."  The general held his gaze steady.  "It wouldn't be because you're not accepting delivery of the ones they do make, would it?"

"Absolutely not."  Papa shook his head.  "A tank that doesn't work, is the same as no tank at all—maybe worse, if it explodes and kills its crew."

"Valid."  But the general still held his gaze on Papa.  "How do you think we can boost production, Lieutenant?"  Papa opened his mouth, but the general added, "Don't try to say it's not your problem."

"Begging the General's pardon..."

The General didn't move, but his gaze sharpened to a diamond.  "Yes, Lieutenant?"

"I'm only responsible for receiving and distributing deliveries of sound equipment, sir.  I don't have anything to do with procurement."

"I told you not to say it wasn't your problem!"  The general leaned forward, eye narrowing, hands clasped.  "But since you insist, we'll make it your problem."

"Begging the General's pardon, but a battalion quartermaster can't have that kind of responsibility, sir."

"Very true—so we're making you quartermaster for the whole Corps."  The General's hand opened, revealing a new, glittering set of insignia.  "Congratulations, Major."

 

* * * * *

 

That night, Papa came home, touched his doorman, and heard Alice's voice say, "Grandma, what big ears you have."

 

* * * * *

 

Grandma's was crowded for so early on a Wednesday night.  Of course, there were always soldiers on leave, but it seemed a little odd that there were so many factory supers in here, too.  Alice wondered if it was just her imagination.

But there was no mistaking the one empty table, empty except for a stocky man in uniform.  The mere sight of him sent a flood of relief through Alice, and she wended her way over to him with a smile.  He stood, aware of her before she'd even seen him, and lit up the room with his grin.  He held her chair, and she slipped in, grateful for the anachronistic gallantry.  The glow in those eyes warmed him, and he sat down beside her, almost sorry they had business to discuss.

She lowered her eyes, maybe blushing—he couldn't tell, the lighting was dim—then looked up with a roguish smile.  "How did you manage to keep the table clear, Lieutenant?"

Pepe shrugged and pointed to his insignia.  "Rank.  Keeps 'em at bay."

Alice looked, and looked again.  "You were promoted."

"Thanks for noticing."  He grinned.  "Things happen fast in wartime."

Then the jarring note registered, and Alice looked around in surprise, really noticing her surroundings for the first time.  "This is an enlisted man's place!"

"Not officially, no.  And as you can see, there are a lot of civilians."

"Yes, but they're all rankers, too.  Isn't it wrong for you to be here?"

"Not really."  Papa grinned.  "The place is civilian, not under military jurisdiction—and I'm a ranker who made good."

"Oh."  Alice felt something relax inside, something she hadn't known was tensed.  "You were an enlisted man?"

"Yeah, but they had to promote me to make me a quartermaster.  Don't think they really wanted to, either."

He made it sound like a joke, but Alice caught the undertone and frowned.  "Why not?"

She suddenly had his total attention again, and his eyes devoured hers.  "Because I'd been on the line.  I knew what faulty weapons meant."

Alice shifted nervously, and broke the gaze.  "Well—that's what I came to tell you about.  You see, Major, I..."

"Yeah, it is a little crowded in here, isn't it?" he said, too loudly.  "Sure, let's try a restaurant.  I'm hungry, too."

She looked up, startled, then followed his lead, standing.  "Major, I…"

"After all, I did ask you out for dinner," he said, still too loudly.  "We can get cocktails while we're waiting on the chef."

She shut up, letting him help her into her coat again, then moving with him toward the door—and wondered, as the crowd seemed to part around him.  Then they were outside, and she said, "Is it really that bad?"

"Dunno," Papa said cheerfully.  "Depends on what you were gonna tell me.  But it's a lot harder for the walls to have ears when we're outdoors.  In there, no telling who might have been listening—or with what.  So, spill it, Super.  Let's get it out of the way, so we can pay attention to the important things."

Her heart skipped a beat, and she decided not to ask what the important things were.  She'd rather have her illusions.  "Okay, Major.  One of the bars broke open today, when it fell—and it wasn't just foam, it was hollow."

Papa stared at her for a long minute.  Then he said, "That's more than somebody pulling a sharp one on somebody else.  That's collaboration."

He turned away, frowning as he strode along, and she suddenly felt hurt, locked out.  But he turned back to her and said, "Think you could get a promotion?"

"Why—I don't know," she said, startled.  "I never wanted one, really.  I make enough to live on, and…"  She didn't finish; she would have had to say, "and I'm safe."

"Try," Papa urged.  "I'd like to know what happens to that flawed steel.  Nothing, I hope.  But if the company's willing to pay so much for so little, they might have other arrangements going, too."

"You mean..."

"Nothing."  Papa shook his head.  "I don't mean anything—yet.  Too many possibilities.  Hopefully I'm wrong, and all we're looking at is a little bit of mutual back-scratching.  But try, okay?  You deserve a better job, anyway."

But I don't, she thought helplessly.

Papa noticed.  He frowned.  "Why not?  You're a wonderful woman."

She turned away.  "You don't know me—yet."

"Yet," he agreed, and her heart thawed.  "But what could you have done, that would make you think you're not great?"

Her voice turned flat.  "I deserted my unit."

Papa frowned.  "I thought you were invalided out."

She tossed her head, irritated.  "Invalided, deserted—what's the difference?"

"A lot," he snapped.  "I know."

She looked up at him, startled.  "I'm sorry...  I didn't mean..."

"Of course not."  His smile shone again.  "But if it's not true for me, Alice, it's not true for you, either."

He had used her name!  She turned away, rattled.  "You don't understand.  I was glad I couldn't go back."

"Ahhhh."  But there was no judgment in that, only warmth, only sympathy.  "Glad they didn't order you to, huh?"

She nodded, feeling herself sink inside.

"Because you would have had to go, if they had?"

"Yes," she hissed.  Why was he tormenting her like this?

"Then you didn't desert."

Alice stopped still for a second, then looked up at him.  "What?"

"You didn't desert," Papa explained.  "If you'd have gone back if they'd ordered you to, then you didn't desert."

Alice turned away and started walking again, numb.  "I guess I didn't, did I?"

"Not a bit," Papa assured her.  "A scared soldier is still a soldier, and I've met a lot of 'em—me included."

"Thank you, Major," she murmured.  "Thank you very much."

"My pleasure.  So will you apply for a promotion?"

Alice gave a short nod.  "Yes."

"See?"  Papa's voice was full of warmth.  "I told you you're not a deserter."

She beamed up at him, and her face was filled with sunlight.  He let himself drift downward into her eyes, then opened his lips against hers.

After a while, he straightened up, taking a deep breath.  "Yes.  Well, now.  It seems I said something about dinner some while ago, didn't I?"

"I don't need it," she said, beaming up at him.

"Maybe not, but I do."  He took her arm, hooking her hand over his elbow.  "Someplace with bright lights, okay?"

"Anything you say, Major."  She floated along on his arm, feeling very sultry.

 

* * * * *

 

"Well, we're both reasonable men."  The sales manager leaned back, caressing his snifter.  "Surely we can come to some kind of accommodation."

'Reasonable' and 'accommodation' were both words that rang alarm bells in Papa's head.  With a two-alarm wariness, he said, "I doubt it, Mr. Gleed."

The sales manager looked pained.  "Please, Major Stuart!  Certainly we can deal with first names, can't we?"

"That's only for personal situations, Mr. Gleed, and this is official.  After all, if your STO missiles won't detonate, they won't detonate.  And that's all there is to it."

"One."  The sales manager held up a finger.  "One out of five you tested—at considerable cost to Arista, I might add."

"That's one out of five Hothri battleships coming through to blast our cities, Mr. Gleed."

"A fluke."  The sales manager waved it away.  "You happened to get one of the very few duds, Major."

"All right.  Give me five more to test.  Only this time, don't charge the government for them."

The sales manager reddened.  "Major, that would be prohibitively expensive for us."

"It would be even more expensive for you if those missiles fail when the Hothri blast through."

The sales manager took a long breath as he sat back, eyeing Papa with a new and different gleam in his eye.  He started to say something, caught himself, and said instead, "Our missiles won't fail when the time comes, Major."

"Then," Papa said, "make sure they don't fail now."

The sales manager leaned forward again.  "Major Stuart, my company has put aside all other projects to develop this surface-to-orbit missile, and the government has an ironclad contract to buy them."

"True," Papa agreed, "when the Navy accepts delivery."

"There is no reason not to!"

"Twenty percent don't work, Mr. Gleed."

"Major…"  Gleed drew a long, shaky breath.  "Any delay in processing this sale could be ruinous for Industrial Munitions.  We have invested sixty percent of our capital in the development and production of this weapon!"

"Then invest a little more, Mr. Gleed.  Fix the detonators."

 

* * * * *

 

The next week, they had a new detonator in production, and a mugger jumped Papa on his way home.

 

TO BE CONTINUED…