The First Casualty

Chapter Ten

Rita bounced out of her car and across the lawn. She looked as excited as a puppy .. . and cuter. Ray smiled, in spite of his own day. First he would listen to whatever made her dance; his news could wait. The front door flew open. “Ray, you won't believe it. Dad, are you home?” she called.

“No, hon,” her mother answered from upstairs. “But I expect him home early.”

Rita gave Ray a hug where he sat in his chair, then settled down at his feet. “Hon, the most wonderful thing happened. We intercepted a message from a ship that was lost.”

“Like we wrote your ship off.” Ray leaned forward; a forehead so excited needed a kiss. Rita accepted it demurely, then captured his cheeks with both her hands and kissed him solidly. His wife was excited, and not just about her news.

With her tongue wandering his mouth, Ray could almost forget the letter in his pocket. Rita came up for air. “We will save that for later. First you've got to hear what happened.”

Licking his lips slowly, Ray asked, “What happened?”

“The message got shuffled to Technology. There's only three of them, but they knew what they had after a page. One ran down the hall looking for me. 'Mrs. Longknife, you're a pilot. Will you read this?' It's so nice when they call me Mrs. Longknife.” She smiled, the tip of her tongue escaping her lips.

Bending quickly for a kiss, Ray asked, “And what was this they wanted you to read, Mrs. Longknife?”

“Ray, a ship came back from a bad jump!”

The blank look on his face was not what Rita expected.

“Ray, ships have been going into jumps and never coming out for centuries. If you make a bad jump, you don't come back.”

“And why were we poor passengers never told?” he growled.

“Because we pilots worry about it enough for all of you.”

Ray drew back, aware he'd stomped his bride's professional pride. He kept his mouth shut. Excited, her glower was short-lived. “In the early days, they had a lot of bad jumps. For a century they've become rarer and rarer. We haven't had one in fifty years. You know what causes them?” Ray shook his head, not about to risk another misstep.

“Speed! Speed and spin. The faster you go into a jump, the farther you go.”

Now Ray was puzzled. “You said you took the jump into that hellhole at twice the speed you would have if the admiral hadn't ordered it?”

“Spin and speed,” Rita repeated. “Spin the ship up, hit a hole at high speed, and zoom, you're halfway across the galaxy. Think about it, Ray, a whole new bunch of jump lines to survey. Millions of systems to visit. Enough cheap resources and good land for humanity to stretch out in. Ray, we've got to get this damn war stopped so we can get on with the real stuff of life!”

Which brought Ray back to the letter in his pocket. He pulled it out and handed it to her. “It appears that few share your enthusiasm for peace,” he said dryly.

Rita glanced at the letter. “You're invited to brief the President on the progress of the war?”

“Please glance at the second page.”

It took her a moment to read that letter. Handwritten by an acquaintance of Ray's who was now on the General Staff, it offered him “advice” on how to handle—more like survive—the briefing. Do not interrupt the President. Do look attentive to everything the President says, no matter how long he speaks. Do not correct him. And, most important, do not say anything that would cast doubt on the eventual victory of Unity forces.

Rita scowled. “That's not a briefing, that's a ...”

“Deaf-mute leading the blind,” Ray offered.

“I was groping for something truly obscene. But nothing I've heard in my Navy time was bad enough. Ray, people are dying, and the President has his head buried in the sand.”

Ray leaned back in his chair, took a deep breath, and let it out slowly. “I'm a soldier, Rita, but sitting here, trying to make this body more than a lump of wasted tissue, I've had time to think. Your father is an interesting source of information. As are you. We need a private talk. I imagine violating any of the general's Dos and Don'ts would be a career-ending decision.” Ray glanced down at his legs. “Somehow I suspect I do not have much of a career left. Maybe it wouldn't be a bad thing to go out in a blaze of glory ...” He hadn't intended to pause, but the words came to glaring life behind his eyeballs before he finished. “... telling the President what no one else has the guts to tell him.”

Rita paled; the pause had not gone unnoticed. “Father should be home soon. Let me help you to the garden. I think he would like to talk about this among the flowers. Mother, send Dad to the garden when he gets home,” she shouted.

“Yes, dear. Dinner will be at seven.”

'Thank you, Mother.”

Ray managed to make it under his own power to the hidden glade of pleasant memory. Rita was at his elbow, carrying three light lawn chairs under one arm. They were just settling in when Rita whispered, “Father is coming.”

Coat thrown over his shoulders, sleeves rolled up, and whistling, Mr. Nuu sauntered toward them. “Mother told me you had something to tell me.”

“Yes, Father, I've had a very exciting day.” Her voice didn't sound excited. Ray wished he could turn back the hour, let Rita once more bubble of doors opening and the galaxy falling into their hands. Maybe he should not have mentioned his letter. Being a husband was more difficult than he'd expected.

“Can you tell us what time it is, Father? Mother was very specific about dinner.”

“Of course.” He glanced at his watch, then raised an eyebrow at them. Ray nodded.

Ernest frowned and turned around slowly. “Can't read it in the sunlight. Just a moment. Ah, yes.” He took his chair. “We are in the clear. What must we talk about?”

Ray nodded to Rita. “Tell him of your discovery.”

“It's nothing,” she said, but she quickly told her father of the ship that returned from the lost.”

“Sweet Mother of God,” he breathed. “Each jump point leads to a dozen, and we have only made use of one. Oh, my daughter, what this will mean to you and your grandchildren.”

“There may be no children, Father.” She handed him Ray's letter.

He read both pages; finished, his hands collapsed into his lap. He stared at them, mouth agape, no words coming out. “I... have ... been hearing things.” He shook his head as if to free himself of a daze. “I have known powerful fools who like to rewrite history, sometimes events only a week in the past. But the Unity Party is living in fantasy.”

“What can we do, Father, to make them see?” Rita pleaded.

Slowly, Ernest shook his head. “Maybe it's too late. Maybe they've gotten away with changing the past for so long that they no longer fear the future. Major, a friend of mine sits in the Wardhaven legislature. The night we voted to join Unity, they suspended the rule barring nonmembers from the floor of the legislature. Thugs with billy clubs wandered the hall. Thugs!

“But even with clubs, they could not thwart our traditions. The vote of the members was to join Unity after the people approved the issue in a referendum. Do you remember that vote?”

Ray shook his head. “As a soldier, I ignored politics.”

“Father, I have not missed a vote since I turned twenty-one. I don't ever remember hearing of that ballot.”

“You and the rest of the planet. I recently had cause to review the law that brought us into Unity. The official one posted on net has several differences from the one I downloaded the morning after our legislature voted.”

“They can do that.” Ray left the words hanging. Not a question, not quite a statement of fact.

“They did it,” Ernest answered.

Rita rose from her chair and went to stand behind Ray. Gently she rubbed his back. “Ray is thinking of using this invitation into the presence of the President to end his military career in a blaze of glory, telling him what he does not want to hear. Would words mean anything to him?” Rita choked on the question.

For a long time, no one said anything. When someone moved, it was Ernest. Glancing at his watch, humming a patriotic tune, he paced around them. After one circuit, he continued pacing, but talking low, as if to himself. “I have a friend you two may wish to meet. It might shock you, daughter, but I know a spy. He may see in the major's summons opportunities that most people only dream about. Let us talk again tomorrow afternoon.”

He quit studying his watch, looked Ray in the eye with a gently twisted smile. “Let me help you up, Major. You have got a lot of walking ahead of you.”

If Mattim didn't care for the greeting they got from the 97th, he liked Pitt's Hope's even less. Ordered to immediately halt, they hung in space while four heavy cruisers came out to meet them. They were scanned by everything Sandy had ever heard of and a few she hadn't. Only after they'd been boarded were they allowed to head for Beta Station. Even then, security teams spread out over the ship while ten very suspicious types under the direct supervision of Captain Horatio Whitebred kept everyone on the bridge under close scrutiny. The Sheffield ended up in dock while Mattim was hustled off to report to the admiral.

The new admiral, or the newest admiral, received him without waiting. “Captain Abeeb, you were mentioned very prominently in Captain Pringle's report of the first battle. Highly flexible approach to fighting, but good instincts.”

“I did what I had to do to get us out of that mess. Was the Significant badly damaged?”

“No, they patched her up before the next shoot, and lost her with all hands in that one, sorry to say.”

It was a kick in the gut. All the risks Mattim had taken to get them out alive only added a few days to their lives. Damn! If the admiral noticed his reaction, she only hesitated a moment. “The Sheffield’s going to be a while in dock, Captain.”

“We made most of her battle damage good,” Mattim interrupted. “The crew needed work to keep their minds off being lost. The ship's in good shape.”

“I don't doubt that, Mattim, but we've learned a lot in the last six weeks, and your ship is about two mods behind in hardware, three or four in software. What was good enough for fifteen or twenty years of peacetime service gets replaced in two or three weeks now.

“I've been wanting to do something since I took command last week, but didn't have anyone. Now, I think I do. While the Sheffield is being updated, I'd like to detach you to the Ninety-seventh. Captain Anderson and Commander Umboto are damn good, but they've spent most of their careers on the defense. The squadron keeps getting clobbered in running gun battles. They keep getting clobbered from space when we're not around. We're each fighting our own separate battles. I want us to fight together.”

Mattim liked her point. Still, he hardly saw himself as the man to glue two different Navies together. “You must have someone better at this than me.”

“Captain, I came in with the Forty-ninth Cruiser Squadron. Right now every ship, except the Sheffield , is battle ready. I know what kind of battle I want to fight. Until Gamma jump starts hollering that colonials are in-system, I intend to spend every minute training the ships I've got to fight just that battle.

“You fought the Sheffield pretty independently. I'm game to give you that freedom next battle, too. But for now, I want you with Andy, coming up with ways we can support each other.”

What could he say? “Yes, ma'am. When do I leave?”

She returned to her desk, tapped it a few times, and glanced up. “A couple of destroyers were due to make a supply run tomorrow. I just moved them up. They leave in two hours. That enough time to get your kit together?”

Mattim saluted. “On my way.”

Next afternoon, Ray and Rita were taking the sun in what had come to be their part of the garden, when Mr. Nuu approached, a short, roly-poly man huffing along beside him. Rita offered him her chair, then settled on the grass beside Ray. The two men carried on a running commentary on the trees, flowers, and bushes, while the newcomer produced several gadgets from the pockets of his disheveled suit. He'd glance at each, move it around or hold it up, glance at it again, then make it disappear. Finally satisfied, he leaned forward.

“Ernest tells me you would like the President to see the light, grasp the hopelessness of his policy, and end the war.”

Ray nodded; so did Rita.

“You realize that answer is itself a capital offense.”

“Already?” Ernest failed to sound surprised.

“The Presidential Proclamation came in yesterday. Anyone found defaming either the President or the glorious war against the Earth scum is to be arrested immediately, hurried before a peoples' court, and executed within twenty-four hours.”

“The people of Westhaven won't stand for that,” Rita said.

Ray remembered Santiago's sister. What the people would stand for and could survive were not the same anymore.

“Most of Westhaven is in uniform, like you two, and subject to even more draconian measures. You haven't been reading your mail, Senior Pilot.” Rita blushed.

“You're saying,” Ray mused, “that matters are totally out of hand. They are drafting an army they cannot deploy. But it can enslave the people on the planet it is supposed to defend.”

“I am afraid so,” the newcomer agreed.

“How did we get ourselves into this mess?” Ernest sighed.

“If I may be to the point,” Ray said, leaning forward, “the matter before us is how to get out of this mess. I take it that either no efforts have been made to redeem the situation, or they have all failed.”

“Many fine men and women have died trying to strike at the head of this gang that throttles us, but our President only increases his security.”

“Then what chance have we?” Rita whispered.

“More than you might think.” The fat man pursed his lips. “Major, the tools at our disposal are quite good, but not perfect. Your disability opens doors closed to others. Your mobility is presently limited. For a long journey it would be only natural to fit you for walking assistance. Walkers are very helpful, but the skin must be toughened. I know just the medicine you should use.” The spy grinned.

Rita swallowed hard. Her hand clutched at his. “This is not a suicide mission. Ray will survive it, won't he?”

“Of course, Mrs. Longknife,” the spy master assured her. “The President needs to see the light. I think Ray has a very sound grasp of the problem.”

“Of course, honey. I will do the job, like a soldier.” I might survive. “There's no defense I can't handle.”

She rose up on her knees, looked him hard in the eye, searched his face. He dared not look away.

“Good, because I'm going with you. I want to be carrying your child—our child—before you meet the President.”

The Destroyer Navy was an interesting place to visit. Mattim would not want to live in a tin can. The officers and crew were young enough to handle four gees with panache, if not without grumbling. For him, they had a full water tank, and he was glad for it when the John Paul Jones and the Yamamoto dashed for the jump point. They backed through it at a few klicks per second. In-system was a surprise. “Colonials. Looks like a couple of their cans just made a supply run,” the skipper told him. “Doubt they'll cause us any trouble.”

If the trip was boring, the ending made up for it in stark terror. On final approach, the Jones held to two gees and they introduced Mattim to his drop shuttle. The Jones would not land. Supplies and the single passenger were cut loose in packing crates with rockets and a tiny navigation control.

“Does this work?” Mattim asked incredulously as they crammed him into a space no bigger than a bed, and a narrow one at that.

“Never had any complaints from the others,” the chief supervising his installation assured him.

“Dead men tell no tales,” the second class tightening down Mattim's straps muttered.

“Knock it off, Peadee.”

“Right, Chief.”

Mattim glanced around his tiny cell. “How often do you use this drop system?”

“Whenever we drop replacements to the Ninety-seventh. We only land when we've got casualties to lift out,” the chief said.

Mattim glanced at the second class. “We deliver the poor jarheads.” He shrugged like a boat hand on the River Styx.

With that kind of lead-in, Mattim expected the worse. He was not disappointed. The canister creaked and groaned as it dropped away from the Jones. Rockets slammed him into the thin cushion of his seat. Something snapped; Mattim did not like the sound of it, but he had no control over this thing. It began to spin. He had no view out. After twenty years in space, he discovered what claustrophobia was. Gritting his teeth, he concentrated on what he could control—his breathing. And his bowels. Tightening his gut, he waited. The damn suit he'd been loaned didn't even have a chronometer. Mattim wasn't a strong believer in hell; this bucket introduced him to it.

Without warning, he hit with a crunch that jarred him to the bone and sent a spasm of pain through his back. The canister stood for a moment, then slowly collapsed, leaving him dangling from his straps. Someone was supposed to be right along to collect him.

“Hello, Ninety-seventh, this is Captain Mattim Abeeb. Anybody there?”

Dead silence. He glanced at his air supply. The backup canister showed twenty-nine minutes. The main supply showed—nothing. He tapped it. It still showed nothing. He rapped it hard. For a second it

showed zero minutes. Then it went back to blank. Then the entire canister went dark.

“Oh, God,” he breathed. Mattim wasn't any surer about heaven than he was about hell. At the moment he hoped there was a God watching over him, 'cause the Navy was doing a damn poor job of it. He started to shiver. It wasn't that cold. Yet.

“Company A, brigade here. We got a stray supply canister in front of your position. Could you collect it?”

Mary had sent her radio operator to the sack after a thirty-two-hour shift. She had managed to catch a two-hour nap during that thirty?-two, so she considered herself fresh. “Supplies or replacements?” she asked without thinking.

“Neither. Navy sent a captain down for a little talk-talk with Anderson, then misplaced him. We've got to pick him up. He's got two hours of air and a half hour backup. No big rush.”

The miner in Mary took that in, divided them by two, then took the smaller. She gave herself fifteen minutes. “Roger, brigade, we're on it.”

She glanced at her boards. Dumont had the reserve squad. “Du, how many rolligons have we got working today?”

“Four. Who wants to take a drive in the country?”

She passed along the situation. “Put a driver and gunner in each, and a driver in my command car. I'll take this one out.”

“Good, I can get back to catching up on my beauty rest. Damn, this being in reserve is great.”

Mary would bet a month's pay the gunner on the lead rig would be Dumont. Her command rig was slowing as she exited the HQ. She grabbed a handhold, and it accelerated away. She kept the rig open to space, but it could be closed up and pressurized.

Four captured rolligons were already raising dust as they hustled through the pass; she joined the tag end of the column. The colonials had just tried their hand at walking in singles, heavy explosives packed on their backs to leave behind as calling cards. It had been a real snipe hunt, but those that hadn't been chased down had been chased off.

And they were now barreling out into the ground they'd disappeared into. Isn't life in the corps wonderful?

Mary had a rough position for the capsule, and the frequency it should be squawking on. No surprise; it was silent. “Lek, a little rocket ship landed on our front door a few minutes ago. Did our sensors pick up anything?”

“Have them aimed down, looking for man-sized movement, and not finding a hell of a lot. You want me to reprogram them and go over their records? I'll need a good half hour.”

“Better do it, Lek. May be a friendly out there trying to breathe vacuum.”

“I'm on it. Just a second, Mary. I've got movement six klicks from the pass, forty degrees left.”

“Unknown or colonial?”

“One ... no, three colonials, coming from different directions, closing on something in a deep crater, if I can trust my map.”

“Dumont, swing us left.”

“Heard, already doing. I'm point. Kip, you keep right. Dag and Zori, swing to my left. Start zigzagging.” Dumont's timing couldn't have been better. A rocket lofted from behind a rock, hung in space for a moment, then arrowed straight at the rightmost rig. Kip popped chaff, then ducked right. Chaff went up again; then the rig came to a bouncing halt behind a boulder.

The rocket ignored the first chaff cloud but dove straight for the second, dispensing bomblets as it crashed into its center. A moment later, Kip's rig was at full speed, heading in the general direction the rocket had come from. The rigs dodged two more small rockets, each one from a different location. They ended up with two captives. The third took too long deciding between POW and fighter. She died.

Dumont raced past the crater Lek thought might hold their wayward Navy type. “Something's down there, and it didn't shoot at me. Might be what you're looking for, Mary. Squad, spread out, keep moving, don't make a good target, and don't draw attention to that crater. It's all yours, Mary.”

Mary told the driver to slow as they passed the crater. She grabbed two different emergency kits. She'd made lots of rescues in the mines; this was just a different twist on a familiar job. Of course, Dumont could have missed something, and the crater's contents might be unfriendly. Rifle ready, emergency kits dangling from both elbows, she stepped from the rig and slid down the crater's crumbling walls. A standard, man-rated canister rested on the opposite side of the crater, nose down.

It had the green and blue Society of Humanity emblem. She tried opening the red emergency exit hatch; it didn't budge. Mary tossed her rifle aside and unzipped the first of her kits. Powered rescue gear gleamed. She only got to use three of her new toys before she was in the canister and staring at the cheapest excuse for a space suit she'd ever seen. The helmet was fogged; it didn't take an engineer to know that the two and a half hours of air hadn't been up to specs.

She dragged her second kit over and unzipped it. The oxygen bottle had several attachments. She grabbed the sharp one and slipped it through the soft material at the neck joint of the suit, slapped goo around it and opened the bottle a crack while she twisted the manual override on the suit's vent. Through her gloves, she could feel stale air hissing out, replaced by the good oxygen. Damn suit had no monitors; she guessed at how much, watching the plastic faceplate as it slowly unfogged. The Navy officer's lips were blue, but he was breathing.

“Du, get my rig back here. You got a lifesaver in your squad?”

“Kip's gunner is.”

“I'll gun for Kip. Get both rigs back here.”

“How's the Navy doing?”

“Not breathing too well. They make a man a captain, then give him a suit I wouldn't wear to a Sunday school picnic.”

“Never went to one, myself. No beer. Okay, Kit, you head kind of sly but quick for the crater. Rest, keep your heads up. If anyone's left, they want our hide.”

Careful of the oxygen bottle, Mary dragged the unconscious man up the rim of the crater. She left him lying there as she dropped back to collect her rifle and emergency kits. She also checked in the capsule. The guy had a briefcase and clothes bag. She added them to her load and made it easily out again just as two rigs came to a quick stop beside the officer.

The oxygen must have been helping, because he pulled himself up on his elbows. Mary patted her mouth and ears through her helmet, then made a quick slit across her throat. You’re not sending or receiving, Joe . He seemed to nod; then the others were on him, lifting him into the command car, slamming its door shut with the captain and the lifesaver inside. The driver secured his hatch, and Mary spotted dust blowing every which way as pressure built up. Good.

As the command rig took off zigzagging for the pass, Mary swung herself up into the gunner's slot on Kip's rolligon. “Okay, everybody, we've done this the easy way. Let's back up careful like and keep this a cakewalk.”

“This is fan, old lady,” Dumont chortled. “We got to go out like this more often.”

At her feet, a POW was taped like a mummy. Mary doubted he—no, she—considered today fun. Well, one person's fun was someone else's bad day. At least you 're out of the shooting, hon. Then Mary snorted. Once, a long time ago, all she'd really wanted was to surrender. Who was the winner here?

Rita drove next morning as they headed into the countryside. There was a thirty-minute wait at a checkpoint. Though they were waved through with only a glance at their ID cards, the wait left them plenty of time to contemplate the three bodies twisting on red flag waving gallows. “Earthie Traitors” the sign read.

“Already,” Rita whispered as she pulled away.

The hanging bodies stayed with Ray. He was sworn to defend these people. Now his uniform was being used as an excuse to kill young men. This was not what he and his father and grandfather had bled for. The hangmen, and the President signing their orders, had to be stopped.

Rita found the dirt road that led into the abandoned quarry. They went well past a swimming hole on a rarely driven path. In a blighted opening among the trees, the spy master waited, a briefcase in hand. The fat man showed Ray how to open the case. “We've included a computer with your slide show on it and extra batteries for the computer and your power walker.”

“So, I am to bludgeon the President to death with batteries?” Ray observed dryly.

The other closed the briefcase. “Now put in five-nine-three for the combination.”

Ray did, and did not open the briefcase. He felt a very -light hum, then nothing.

“It is armed now. Open it, and there will be a very big hole in the ground, and very little of us for forensics to find.”

“Let's see its effect.”

“We only have three.”

“A soldier practices with his weapon. Until you have fired the weapon, you are just reading a book.”

“Not an unexpected attitude, Major.” The spy master ducked into his car, returning with a strange gizmo. Briefcase under his arm, and whistling a happy aria, he plodded away. At three hundred paces, he stopped, did something, and hastened back to them. He offered Ray a small box. “Would you do the honors?”

The box was a cliché: one red button. Ray pushed it. Across the distance, he could hear the click as the briefcase fasteners were pushed open, a snap as the lid popped up. The explosion was not much louder than the noise the lid made. A small puff of smoke rose from the case.

“I've seen more dangerous firecrackers on Landing Day,” Rita snapped.

The spy stared at the quickly dissipating cloud for a moment, then nervously licked his lips. “I would appreciate it if you two left. I have some bomb disposal work to do. I will get in touch with you in a day or two.”

They left.

Rita turned on the radio; all stations were blaring marches or patriotic songs. She called up music of her own choosing from the car's memory and headed away from town. “There's a lake I used to love when I was a little girl” was all she said.

Ray leaned back in his seat, took a deep breath of the spring air, and concentrated on Rita beside him. Tomorrow could wait. Rita talked about yesterdays, sharing what it had been like growing up the treasured only child of a father rapidly building an empire and a mother both beautiful and vain. Ray imagined somewhere in there were the roots of the woman he loved. A woman who would insist on piloting her own starship and now very much wanted a child of her own. His child would probably grow up like Rita. Assuming he or she did grow up. Assuming the bomb killed the President and brought down the government. If Ray failed, everyone who ever knew him would be denounced, tortured, and murdered. I will not fail.

They left the main road, meandered through trees and dales until Rita took off down a dirt road. A lovely lake came in view, but the trees hid it more often than not. Its waters reflected back the blue of the sky. Its surface was ruffled by the wind, but Ray saw no boats. Then Rita turned down a path that was more a hint than a road. For a few minutes the car fended off tree limbs and brush; then they came to a halt in a grassy area that gently rolled down to the water.

“Mom and Dad used to camp here, long ago, before they bought the summer home where everyone had a summer home. I asked Dad not to sell this patch. He gave it to me.” She helped him from the car, settled him on a blanket that just happened to be in the trunk, then began to undress. Slowly, methodically, completely, the clothes came off. “Now, we talk. No more bullshit. No more hiding behind nice words. We talk.”

It was uncomfortable, sitting there in uniform, facing his naked wife. But Ray was not willing to so much as loosen his tie. It was not the bare skin that he feared, but the bare soul Rita demanded. That, he most certainly was not prepared for. 'Talk about what?” he dodged.

“Oh, God, Ray.” She turned away in exasperation. “Somebody jiggered the bomb. Face it, our security is hash. Two to one you're walking into a trap. Even if you get past the guards and searches, how much you want to bet the damn bomb doesn't work?”

That was one question Ray could answer. “The bomb will work. I don't leave here until I'm absolutely sure it will blow the President and everyone in the room to whatever they expect after this life.”

She turned back to him, settled to her knees across from him, swallowed hard. “And you too.”

“This bomb will kill the President. Other considerations are secondary.” There, he'd said it.

Rita shot to her feet, paced around him like a cat stalking a mouse caught in a trap. “God damn you, Ray. No, God bless you. You always were a good soldier.” She did not look at him. “And there's no bloody way I can change your mind.”

“Is the President killing millions?” he asked her.

She shivered as she had when she saw the hanging bodies. “Yes.”

'Does he have to be stopped?”

“Yes.”

“Do you know of anyone with a better chance of killing him?”

“Damn it, Ray, how should I? That spy says you're his best bet, but there're a hundred colonial worlds. How many of them have guys like our spy, all trying to kill our Unity shot'.'“

“I don't know. I just know I can do it. Rita, I've seen green soldiers freeze, and die for that lost moment. I've been a soldier all my life, and a killer for most of it. There's a lot things I can't do. This is one I can.”

“And you owe it to all those brave soldiers of the Second Guard that followed your orders and died. I watched you break down at the hospital when you faced your men. Do they mean more to you than me?” Tears streamed down Rita's face. Ray wanted to kiss them away. She kept pacing, far beyond his reach.

“Rita, I owe it to the men and women who died at my command. I owe it to your father, and the people working in his factories. Because I can do it, I owe it to every man, woman, and child on a hundred colony worlds and, yes, even Earth.” He paused, then played his last card. “And the child of ours that you want so much. You spoke of a million worlds opening to us. What will be left to us if we let this damn war burn humanity down to a husk? Someone has to stop the madness. I can. Would you really expect me not to try? Try with all I am?”

Rita was sobbing now, and tears were coming to his eyes. He let them flow. Rita ceased her pacing and settled beside him, her arms around his neck. It took his left arm to keep him balanced upright. His right arm went around her. For a long time, they cried together, holding each other as best they could.

Then Rita began to undress him. “I know I married a wonderful man. Some women look at a husband and see a man to remake. I looked at you and fell in love with what I saw. Even if I'd known then the price I'd pay for loving you, I couldn't have walked away. I loved the commander of the Second Guard. I knew when I flew you into battle that I might not bring you back. So what is so different about this mission from the others?”

Ray knew the difference. In one he took a soldier's risk.

Canes left behind, she helped him into the water. Free of his own weight, he floated. Rita let the water wash away their tears, the sun warm them. Then she brought out joy and happiness from her vast storehouse and made him laugh.

She started a water fight. In chest-deep water, he found he could stand well enough to splash back. The fight ended with them standing like lovers with four good legs, arms entwined. They explored each other. When Rita drew him into the shallows and made love to him, he had forgotten about tomorrow. She loved him. He loved her back.

Washed clean by the sun and water of both hope and fear, they lost themselves in love. For today, that was enough.