John Ringo: East of the Sun, West of the Moon

“Oh, she’ll survive,” Herzer said, shaking his head. “Thomas… Marcum, what the hell was it…?”

“You’re going to be muttering about this all night, aren’t you?” Megan said, smiling. “I’m sure there are records somewhere.”

“With Edmund, it’s for sure,” Courtney said, smiling. “June Lasker’s still the archivist in Raven’s Mill. She’ll have his name.”

“I suppose,” Herzer said. “What did I order?”

“Dinner was nice,” Megan said as she came in the bedroom wearing a thin nightgown. “They’re very nice people. But is Mike always so…”

“Monosyllabic?” Herzer said, grinning. “When he’s not sure of his ground, yeah. When he’s comfortable he opens up a little. But he’s never what you might call a big talker. He leaves that to Courtney. So, did you get enough information about my girlfriends?”

“Did it really bother you?” Megan asked, sitting down on the edge of the bed and starting to brush her hair.

“No,” Herzer replied. “I suppose it’s easier than pulling it all out of me. If I go through the list I don’t know whether it’s just being honest or boasting.”

“And quite a list it is,” Megan said thoughtfully.

“Not all that long,” Herzer argued.

“Long enough,” Megan said, turning around and smiling at him. “I’m not bothered by it but I wonder if it’s part of something I couldn’t put a finger on.”

“What?” Herzer asked, frowning. “About me?”

“No…” Megan said, sighing in frustration. “I think it might be part of how I’m viewed, though. Nobody knows quite what to make of me in this town. Given my… relationship with Paul, I’m clearly not a virgin or any sort of pseudo virgin. I therefore, in their eyes, have to be either hypersexual, from my experiences, or asexual. Shanea’s an example of the first and Meredith of the second. Love it or renounce it. And I’m afraid that, possibly because of your reputation, they’ve decided I’m hypersexual. It makes Duke Dehnavi’s advances more… understandable. And angering.”

“And, if anything, they’ve gotten it backwards,” Herzer said, sadly. “Sorry. I guess I didn’t think about my baggage.”

“I haven’t renounced sex, Herzer,” Megan said, sorrowfully. “I’m just not ready.”

“I know,” he replied, holding out his arms. “Are you done brushing your hair so I can give you a hug?”

“How do you put up with this?” she asked, turning down the lamp and snuggling into his side.

“With difficulty,” Herzer admitted. “But I love you and I trust that, someday, you’ll be able to… get back on the horse as Bast put it. In the meantime… I’ll wait.”

“How long?” she asked, quietly.

“Long enough,” Herzer said. “If it’s going to be ‘never’ then you’ll find the strength to tell me. And we’ll… work something out. I don’t want to give you up.”

“You are very strange, Herzer,” Megan muttered. “How are the demons?”

Herzer paused as he did a quick internal inventory.

“Not good,” he admitted. “That encounter with Duke Dehnavi’s… how’d you put it?”

“Doxie?” Megan asked.

“Yeah, doxie, caused them to slip their leash a little. Bottling them back up without… some outlet, is difficult.”

“Were you attracted to her?” Megan asked, carefully.

“Hell, yes,” Herzer replied, grinning in the dark. “I mean, I wouldn’t toss her out of bed for eating crackers; the duke at least has good taste in doxies. If you want me to lie about it, I will. But I try not to.”

“No, don’t lie,” Megan said, yawning. “I’m afraid I’m going to dream of doxies tonight.”

“Good dreams, sweetie,” Herzer said, twisting to kiss her on the head. “Only good dreams.”

Herzer had read somewhere that sleeping with a woman and not having sex was the closest form of intimacy. The writer should have tried doing it for four months in a row.

At this point, Herzer had to admit that in the deeps of the night, as Megan’s breath whispered on his arm, it was hard in more ways than one. Some nights seemed like one continuous wrestle with his demons. During the day he could keep active and, in general, his lackanookie condition was no big deal. Occasionally there’d be an encounter with somebody like the duke’s doxie and it would get… hard. But mostly it was no problem.

In the nights, however, it was starting to be a problem. No, in honesty, it had started to be a problem a long time ago. Now it was starting to be a big problem.

Part of it was that he hadn’t been getting enough exercise so he wasn’t sleeping as well. Early to bed and early to rise would have helped. Even a ruck run every morning didn’t really impact him much. Honestly, it didn’t even keep him in shape. He was used to three to six hours of solid exercise a day and with the schedule he’d been keeping there just wasn’t a time.

So he lay awake every night, pondering the various problems of the day and trying to convince Mr. Happy that he wasn’t going to get any.

Hard. Good word.

He rolled over and contemplated the darkened wall, then closed his eyes and told himself to go to sleep. Ignore it, it will go away he told himself, clicking his prosthetic lightly in thought. The faint noise made Megan mutter and roll over, so he stopped.

He’d just about convinced himself when he heard the pounding on the door. As he rolled to his feet his sword had whispered out of its scabbard before he really knew it was in his hand.

“Crap,” he muttered, walking to the door of the bedroom. There were legionnaires on the door of the apartment and in the street below. And it was unlikely that an assassin would knock. Unlikely, not impossible.

“What is it?” Megan said, sleepily.

“I dunno,” he muttered, going out of the room and down the corridor to the entry foyer.

“Yes?” he called as there was another pounding on the door. “What the hell do you want?”

“I’m sorry, Major,” a voice said in the hallway. “There’s a messenger here for you and Countess Travante from Duke Edmund.”

Herzer looked through the peephole and recognized one of the guards but when he opened the door he did it from the side with two feet of steel pointing out.

“Sorry, Major,” the messenger said. He was an ensign in undress uniform with enough smell of horse that he must have ridden hard. He had a dispatch case in his hands and opened it up, proffering a heavy linen envelope.

“Stay here,” Herzer growled, taking the envelope with his prosthetic and closing the door in the ensign’s face. He walked to the couch and lit one of the lamps with a match, then slit the pouch with his sword, tossing the latter on the couch.

It didn’t take long to read the short note.

“Son of a BITCH!”

“THE WHOLE TEAM?” Herzer shouted, ignoring the fact that the other people in the room far outranked him. “The whole God-damned team ?”

“Sit down, Herzer,” Edmund said, pointing at a chair. “Megan, thank you for coming at this time of night.”

“No problem, Edmund,” Megan said, sitting down at one end of the conference table. “This is very bad news.”

“Yes, Major,” General Galbreath said, taking a sip of coffee and gesturing for Megan and Herzer to be served. “The whole team. Icarus is gone.”

“With all due respect, sir, what the hell happened?” Herzer asked, taking a cup of coffee from a senior NCO with a nod of thanks.

“A group of assassins descended on the training facility,” Edmund said. “We’ve only got the first words off of the semaphore. Apparently some were human but the rest were some sort of large bug, sort of like a giant scorpion…”