Starfist: Wings of Hell (9 page)

“If I can’t find the sonofabitch, he don’t exist!” Huygens Long exclaimed, jumping to his feet and smashing a fist into his palm. “I mean, Madam President, that’s one thing we do very well, we find people like this—this Gobels guy!”

President Chang-Sturdevant smiled. She appreciated her attorney general’s direct manner and plain speech. “Sit down, AG. Take a load off.” She gestured that he should resume his seat. “What can you tell us about this Dr. Joseph Gobbles at this point?”

“Where have I heard that name before?” General Alistair Cazombi asked. He’d called for the meeting as soon as he’d received Brigadier Sturgeon’s back channel recommending that the attorney general also be present: Finding Gobels and the missing Skink named Moses was a civilian law enforcement matter now, not a military operation.

“‘Gobels,’ madam,” Long began. “Alistair asked me to do a check on him before we came over here”—he nodded at Cazombi—“so I had his name run through the system. He’s one of the chief scientists at Universal Labs right here in Fargo. He was sent to Kingdom along with a lot of other people to survey the survivors of the Skink war and find out what he could about the enemy. As far as the people at Universal Labs are concerned, he’s still there, still surveying. But this Brattle guy says neither he nor his assistant, this Pensy Fogel guy, are anywhere to be found on Kingdom.”

“What about his background?”

“Well, Madam President, nothing unusual there. His curriculum vitae is public knowledge. He held the Chair of Exobiology at Miskatonic University for a number of years; has led or participated in as chief scientist some expeditions to newly settled worlds to investigate the native life forms; written a string of papers, usual academic shit. When we contracted with Universal Labs to do this survey on Kingdom they contacted him and he jumped right on the wagon with the rest of the scientific community.” Long shrugged.

“Where do you think he is now?” Cazombi asked.

Long shrugged again. “Anyone’s guess, Alistair.”

“What’s
your
guess, AG?”

Long hesitated before answering the President. “He’s here on Earth somewhere. The reason I think so is, he’s got to have someplace private and quiet where he can take that Skink and work him over. He doesn’t have the resources to set up a lab somewhere light-years away. The bastard’s got the scientific find of the centuries! A live, sentient alien life form that’s at war with us but about which we don’t know squat. That’s a Nobel Prize just waiting to be opened. No, he’ll do his work here, somewhere. All I’ve got to do is start interviewing people who know this guy and his sidekick. We’ll find him.” He rapped his knuckles on the tabletop for emphasis.

“Very good, AG. Alistair, thank you for bringing this to my attention. Please assure Brigadier Sturgeon and General Aguinaldo we’re on it.” She turned back to Long. “AG, time is of the essence, I think. When can you get started?”

Long smiled. “I already have, Madam President, I already have.”

Linney Liggons, Gooden Ashcake, and Adner Shackelford sat, as they usually did, around the trid in Tanner Hastings’s Hardware and General Store, talking about the jobs they hadn’t had over the past twenty years or so. Steady employment among the 653 (give or take) residents of Wellfordsville, in the southwestern portion of what used to be the state of Virginia, was as rare as a full set of teeth.

“Wisht I’d stayed in the army,” Linney remarked. He leaned over and expectorated a stream of tobacco juice into a No. 10 can sitting on the floor. “I’da been retired now ’n livin’ on a big guvmint check.”

“What you complainin’ about, Linney?” Gooden Ashcake cackled. “They give you three hots ’n a cot ’n taught you how to wear shoes. Ain’t that enuff guvmint assistance fer one lifetime?”

“You boys gonna watch this trid or not?” Adner Shackelford asked.

“We seen it six hundert times, Adner,” Linney said. “Next scene ol’ John Wayne, he—

“Hey! Tanner!” Linney Liggons shouted across the store. “Yew got enny deliveries I could make fer ya today?” Tanner, busy with an inventory, shook his head. “Damn. He give me a load o’ stuff to take out to ol’ Treemonisha’s place a week or two ago. I tell you ’bout that?”

“Sixty-seven times,” Adner said. “’N-nobody believes that old woman’s had a baby.” He laughed.

“Well, I dunno, I said th’ kid was hers, but he shore looked like one o’ them Giddings, yew know, wif a face like a rat.”

“Hell’s bells, Linney.” Gooden Ashcake laughed. “Sounds like you. You sure you didn’t climb up on’t ol’ girl n’ pump ’er up some?”

“Gawdamn you, Gooden! That ol’ woman’s th’ queen of rattlesnakes! I’d ruther fuck a shit-assed cow than her!”

“Some folks around here sez as that’s jist what you bin doin’, Linney,” Adner said with a laugh, then shifting his chair to avoid the blow Linney directed at him.

“Aw, thet thar kid’s probably one of ’er great-grandchirren,” Gooden volunteered. “Yew know how thet Giddin’s clan bin intermarryin’ fer generations. Hell, they ain’t no different than most other folks around here.” He laughed.

“Well, lass time I wuz out there ol’ Treemonisha, she come out wif that ol’ goddamn shotgun o’ hers. She mighty nervous ’bout sumptin’. I figure it got to do wif that kid’s living wif her, no matter whose side of the fambly he come from.”

“I’ll tell you boys sumptin’,” Adner began, leaning forward confidentially and speaking in a near whisper. “Lass time I delivered some stuff to those two doctors, yew know, yew seen ’em plenty o’ times down to Verne Driscoll’s tavern—”

“Them’s th’ ones livin’ out by Jack’s Shop?” Gooden interjected.

“Yup, them’s th’ ones. Anyways, they tipped me might generous like—”

“I remember! Yew got drunk thet night down at Driscoll’s on the tip!” Linney shouted, slapping his knee and licking his lips in memory. “It shore got drunk out thet night!”

“Will you jist shut up? But they wouldn’t let me inside that barn or whatever it is they’s livin’ in. But most strange of all, they kep’ askin’ me all sorts o’ questions about ol’ Treemonisha! Now, why you ’spose them fellers would wanta know about thet ol’ hag for?”

“Sheeyit, boy,” Linney shouted. “Them city boys ain’t a-gonna shack up wif enny o’ the wimmen in
this
here town! Hell, compared to them, Treemonisha’s a beauty queen!”

“Hey!” Tanner Hastings shouted from the counter. “Yew boys cain’t talk decent over thar, git on outside! I got wimmenfolk comin’ in here to trade ’n I don’ want enny o’ thet barnyard talk in here! ’N yew jist forget about Treemonisha Giddings. She kin take keer o’ herself.”

Huygens Long’s agents began their search by contacting Dr. Gobels’s colleagues at Miskatonic University and his neighbors in the upscale neighborhood where he lived alone in Fargo. They wanted to know if he’d been seen recently or if he owned any remote property where he could sequester himself. If any of those people knew anything, they weren’t talking. None of his colleagues at Universal Labs, and that included the administrative staff, knew him well enough to contribute anything helpful. A search of his home in Fargo revealed nothing, either. Neither did anything come up on his assistant, Pensy Fogel. The agents gave their contact information to everyone they interviewed with the admonition that if anything was to come up, please call immediately.

Then one afternoon a lab tech at Universal called the lead investigator, Special Agent Don Rittenhouse. “I remember he asked us to do some lab work,” she said.

Rittenhouse shot bolt upright in his chair.
“Where did the request come from?”
he almost shouted.

“A post office box in a place called Wellfordsville, in Old Virginia.”

“Ummmm-
waaaa!
I’m throwing you a kiss, young lady,” Rittenhouse exclaimed. “I’m on my way over and I’ll recommend to your supervisor he give you the rest of the week off! You are a darling!” He turned to his assistant, Trace Keen. “Mr. Keen, we’ve got a trace on the bastard! Grab your toothbrush, we’re off to Old Virginny! Hope they got a good hotel down there.”

Wellfordsville hadn’t had a decent hotel since Uriah Shamhat’s place burned down in 2236.

CHAPTER EIGHT

Einna Orafem came out of the kitchen to personally oversee the serving of the meal for Lance Corporal Schultz and his party. She stood, hands clasped between her breasts, close enough behind Schultz’s right shoulder that her hip brushed his upper arm, and eagle-eyed every placement of dish, every movement of the servers. Satisfied that the staff had done justice to her man, she bent at the hips to touch her lips to the crown of his head, then marched, head held high, back to the kitchen.

The room was silent as the kitchen doors swung closed behind Einna Orafem, and all eyes were on Schultz. Schultz gave no sign that he was aware of the silence, or the attention. Other than the expression on his face. On anybody else, that expression would have rightly been called “smug.” But this was Hammer Schultz, and the Hammer was too tough to ever look
smug.

Schultz picked up his knife and fork and proceeded to eat. In moments, the normal dinner hour noises resumed and everybody’s attention returned to what they’d been doing before the appearance of Big Barb’s chef at Schultz’s table.

Only a few bites into the meal, Corporal Claypoole looked at Sergeant Kerr and asked, “What’s he doing here?” He poked his spoon in the direction of Lance Corporal Ymenez.

“He’s in your fire team. What do you think?”

“He’s a temporary replacement, until Wolfman comes back.”

“He wants to stay with the platoon, and Ensign Bass wants to keep him.”

Claypoole nodded and dropped the subject. Even with some nourishment entering his system, he didn’t feel up to pursuing anything.

During the rest of the meal, the four of them talked—and Kerr made sure Ymenez was included in the conversation—about the usual things military people talk about when on liberty: places they’ve served; good places to pull liberty or go on leave; men they’d served with; mutual acquaintances and friends from other duty assignments; odd things they’d seen or done; lessons learned from various deployments. Everything, in fact, with one glaring exception—women. It’s virtually impossible for four unmarried enlisted men to converse for more than five or ten minutes without the topic of conversation shifting to women. But Kerr and Schultz knew that something must have gone very wrong between Claypoole and Jente, and Ymenez followed their example.

So they waited until the dishes had been cleared, and Kerr, Schultz, and Ymenez were on their third mugs of Reindeer Ale—Claypoole was still drinking water—before Kerr asked:

“What the hell happened with your girlfriend?”

At first Claypoole denied that anything had happened, saying that he’d spent the night with Jente, then she had work to do on the farm today, so he came to Bronnoysund, to Big Barb’s, to be with other members of third platoon.

“Right, nothing happened,” Kerr said dryly. “And the first thing you did when you got here was get passed-out drunk. What’s next? You have an instantaneous interstellar matter transmitter you want to sell me?”

Instead of answering, Claypoole looked around. “Where’s a corpsman? I need a corpsman.” He rubbed his temples.

Kerr reached into his shirt pocket and withdrew a med packet. “You don’t need a corpsman. I’ve got what you need right here.”

“Gimme!” Claypoole reached across the table to take the packet of hangover pills, but Kerr snatched it out of the corporal’s reach.

“I’ll give you one when you start talking,” Kerr said.

Claypoole started to get up, to go after the pills.

“Talk,” Schultz growled.

Claypoole froze, slowly turned his face toward the big man, and eased himself back onto his chair.

“Well.” Claypoole stopped to clear his throat. “Everything was fine this morning until”—and it all came tumbling out. He paused only once, to swallow a hangover pill when Kerr passed one over.

“…and that’s why I came to Big Barb’s, to get drunk and forget her.” He shook his head. “But I can’t figure out what got into her, why she went crazy like that and kicked me out. Things were going
so
well between us up to then.” He looked at the tumbler of water clutched in his hands. “I need something stronger than this.”

“Marriage,” Schultz rumbled.

“What?” Claypoole yelped. “I can’t marry her—I can’t marry
anybody
! And she knows it.”

Kerr leaned back and thought for a moment before asking, “This wasn’t the first time she asked when you were going to get promoted, was it?”

Claypoole had to think about it before he could answer. “No, she’s asked once or twice before.”

“Did she ever mention marriage?”

Claypoole shrugged. “Maybe. I don’t know. I can’t get married, so I don’t even think about it.”

Kerr leaned across the table and put a hand on Claypoole’s shoulder. “Jente’s a single woman, Rock. She thinks about marriage.”

“Babies,” Schultz added.

“Babies?” Claypoole squeaked. He tried to imagine himself as a father, taking care of a tiny, squalling
thing
that stank when its diaper needed changing, and he shuddered. “But she knows that the Marines don’t allow anyone below staff sergeant to get married. I’m only a corporal, so how can she be thinking of me marrying her?”

“She’s a woman,” Kerr said.

Schultz nodded. “Woman,” he agreed.

“Yeah?” Claypoole turned on Schultz. “What about, about—” He jerked his thumb at the kitchen.

Schultz shrugged. “She knows” was all he said.

Kerr was satisfied he’d gotten the entire story out of Claypoole, and looked around for a serving girl. When he caught one’s eye he ordered a large pitcher of ale for the table.

“Drink your water,” Kerr told Claypoole when the pitcher arrived and the corporal looked at it longingly. “I think you’re over your hangover and well enough nourished, and by Mordred’s Mom, you’ve earned the right to do some serious drinking. But”—he pointed at Claypoole’s tumbler—“you have to drink it out of that, to remind you of what happens when you overdo it.” He stood. “Now it’s time I joined the grown-ups. You two, make sure he doesn’t do anything too stupid tonight.”

Schultz grunted.

Ymenez gaped at Kerr and said, “Aye aye, Sergeant,” and wondered what he was supposed to do if his fire team leader
did
decide to do something “too stupid.”

Kerr headed for another table, where Ratliff and Kelly, third platoon’s other two sergeants, who had come in while Claypoole was telling his tale of woe, were just digging into their own dinners.

The three of them spent the rest of the evening talking and drinking and even eating more, though Claypoole did most of the talking and drinking. Occasionally a couple of Big Barb’s girls came to the table and flirted with Claypoole and Ymenez. They ignored Schultz because he belonged to Einna Orafem and none of them wanted to get in trouble with the chef. After all, she cooked their meals as well. When the kitchen closed, Schultz stood with a grunt and went into it, to leave with Einna.

Claypoole got blind drunk again. The next morning he woke in one of the upstairs rooms. A hangover pill and a glass of water were waiting for him on the nightstand. He gratefully drank the pill down and let it work its magic. Only then did he look around the room. From the condition of the bed, he surmised that he hadn’t spent the night alone, but had no idea who might have been with him. He checked the time and saw it was late enough that Big Barb’s was probably open. He gave himself a quick washup, dressed, and headed downstairs to get something to eat.

That evening, Gunnery Sergeant Thatcher came through the front door of Big Barb’s and looked around. When he saw most of third platoon present, along with a number of other Marines from the FIST and from base personnel, he filled his lungs and called out:

“Listen up, Marines!” He waited a few seconds until even the civilians had quieted and turned their attention to him, then announced, “The fast frigate HM3
Gordon
arrived in orbit a few hours ago. She brought news that will be officially announced at a FIST formation in three days. But Brigadier Sturgeon thought the news was too good to hold back, so the word is being passed now. Unofficially, of course.

“By presidential order, the quarantine of the Marines on Thorsfinni’s World has been lifted! Now maybe we can all get back to normal careers.

“That is all.” He turned and exited Big Barb’s before anybody could shout questions at him, questions he probably wouldn’t have been able to answer anyway.

The lifting of the quarantine that had frozen all changes of duty station, retirements, and ends of active service for the Marines of Thirty-fourth FIST and Camp Major Pete Ellis was
the
topic of discussion and speculation among the Marines for the rest of the evening. Most of them were well past their normal rotation dates—Thorsfinni’s World normally being a two-year-duty station—and many were past their nominal end-of-active-service or retirement dates. Were they going to be processed out of the Corps? Were the remaining Marines to be rotated en masse to duties on other worlds? Nobody had answers, but that didn’t stop the speculation—or the plans some began making for what they were going to do in a few weeks when they returned to civilian life.

Corporal Claypoole even stopped thinking about Schultz’s claim that Jente got mad at him because she wanted to marry him.

On the morning of the fourth day of the five-day liberty, Corporal Claypoole again woke in an upstairs room at Big Barb’s. He’d drunk heavily the night before, but not as heavily as the previous night and didn’t really need the hangover pill Sergeant Kerr had left with him. But he took it anyway. And he didn’t have to wonder who he’d spent the night with; she was still in bed with him. She woke while he was taking the pill, smiled at him, and held out her arms. He smiled back and went to her arms. And soon after, into other parts of her.

She wasn’t Jente, but, well, Jente didn’t want him anymore, so…If the one you love doesn’t want you anymore, then accept the one who does want you. Even if it
is
mostly a commercial relationship for her.

She cleaned up and left afterward. He hadn’t asked if she was the woman who’d spent the previous night with him. If she wasn’t, he didn’t want to know that.