A Web Serial by M.C.A. Hogarth
| 12. Conversations. | 14. Paradigms. |
|---|
13. Peaches
Two days later. Barracks. Spots is putting a rosary aside. Claws reaches for the compartment light.
"Done?"
"Yes, thank you."
"Righty. Good n—"
Spots's earbug chirps. She places it against her ear. "Guitart." Listens. "On my way." She rolls out of bed and starts dressing.
"Spots?"
"Dunno... I'm supposed to report to the lieutenant at the Door." She finishes dressing. "Back... soon, I guess."
Once she's out the door Claws gets up and taps the screen beside his bunk. A disgruntled Scythe appears.
"This has better be good, I was just getting back to sleep."
"Dreamin' about ninety-two virgins?"
"Oh, for God's sake. My ****ing grandmother would punch you in the ****ing mouth for that. What the **** is it?"
"Bonny Peaches just called for Spots. What gives?"
"Dunno, had something to do with the fiddler."
"With the alien?"
"Yep."
"****, Scythe, this is our sack time. Sack time is sacred."
"You don't argue with Peaches. Or do you want them to kick Rambo the First out of the grave, see if he can do better by us the second time around?"
"**** no, no. Dammit."
"Go back to bed, Claws. She might be the noobiest of noobs, but she can handle a little quality time with the LT."
"You're not the **** who's going to have a sleepless buddy at your back tomorrow."
"Whine whine." The circuit cuts. Claws grouses and throws himself on his bunk. The lights flick off.
Spots heads to the Door, which leads to high-security areas of the base. Three figures are waiting there: a short lanky man with stringy hair in civilian dress; and two Marines, a fit young woman and an older man with stubble for hair, the same who comforted Spots at the Real Window.
"Private Guitart reporting as ordered, ma'am."
"Come with us, Guitart."
"Yes, ma'am."
The civilian swipes an ID card through the door reader. After a few halls, they enter a room lined with computers and 3d imaging stations. Samuel-Colt is among them. In proper lighting, he is tan with black and brown markings. The fluorescing blue paint on his shell looks almost black.
The civilian speaks first.
"Hey Sam, we brought her."
"Good, that is very good..." The alien trails off. His vestigial arms squeak a sudden, disturbed note. "Where is her escort?"
The civilian points at the two Marines. "They brought her."
"Those humans are strangers. They do not smell like her. Where is her escort? A mother should not be without her escort."
The civilian glares at Spots now. "Who were you with when he saw you?"
"My squad-mate...? Claws, he's in the barracks."
"Dammit."
Older man. "Is it important?"
Samuel-Colt. Sharp low sound. "A mother should never be without escort. Please retrieve him. Then we can speak."
Peaches. "Can you escort him through the Door, please, Gunny?"
Older man. "Sure thing, ma'am." He steps outside.
Civilian. "Might as well sit. We won't be able to start until he gets back."
Spots, bewildered. "Start... what?"
The civilian shrugs, offers his hand. "Will Kenyan. Senior Engineer, assistant to the fiddler."
"Nice to meet you. I'm Magda."
The alien sits across from them: many arms, many legs, folded at strange angles. He studies Peaches, a young woman with blonde hair tied back in a very short ponytail. Her fresh girl-next-door face is responsible for her nickname. "We do not know this other human by name."
"I'm Lieutenant Savannah Bonnet. Nice to meet you, ah... Samuel-Colt, right?"
"That is my name. We know 'lieutenant'... that means you have authority in this situation, yes? Even over the mother?"
Peaches glances at Spots. "Ah, that's right. Yeah. Yes."
Samuel-Colt looks at Spots. Interrogatory glide (sounding almost skeptical). "This youth gives you orders?"
Firmly, Spots: "She's trained to deal with situations I'm not, Samuel-Colt. So yes, I follow her orders."
"Strange."
Spots. "Strange how?"
Kenyan, muttering. "****, don't ask him more questions."
Samuel-Colt. Single-note drone. "I will have been born, lived and died within a span that your young will live without fully maturing... and yet, despite having so many more years of experience than I would have, humans are still not considered adult. How can that be?"
Spots. "How old are you, Samuel-Colt?"
Falling pitch trill. "Fifteen years. We have already chosen my successor. Within five years, I will return to die and pass on our legacy. How old are you, Mother-soldier?"
"I'm thirty-two."
"Thirty-two years!" A rising, startled glissando. "And you, Lieutenant Savannah Bonnet?"
Peaches glances at Spots again. "Twenty-two."
"A decade between you. It is not awkward?"
Spots laughs. "It probably wasn't until you asked."
Peaches flushes, then laughs too. The door slides open. "Here's the gunny and the... ah... mother's escort. At ease, Corporal."
Samuel-Colt, approvingly to Claws. "Very good. We apologize for separating you from your charge."
Claws, bewildered. "Ain't no trouble. Uh, what's this about now?"
Samuel-Colt, turning to Spots. Quick arpeggio, rising. "We have heard that you used our shields in a non-standard way. We were hoping to discuss this incident with you."
Spots, startled. "Really?"
"It was not our intent for the shields to be used in such a fashion, but you have made a proof of concept... we are not surprised. We did not design the shield protocol to allow for constant re-configuration, but if it is a viable weapon we would like to re-visit the technology."
"Oh! Of course. Anything I can do to help."
"Then perhaps we may repair to the testing facility?"
"Yes, of course!"
| 12. Conversations. | 14. Paradigms. |
|---|
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