John Ringo: A Deeper Blue

“This padwan asks the Master’s apology,” Katya said, bowing with a smirk. “I see what you mean, though.”

“Now, let us work on removing the top again,” Jay said with a sigh. “I will admit that I’m enjoying the sight, I am heterosexual, but you are just not doing it right. If you’d only spent some time as a stripper it might help. With mental conditioning if nothing else. You have to feel the need to expose yourself and you so dislike the very thought that it is interfering.”

“I’ve been naked in front of many men,” Katya said, coldly. “And none of them have ever known I was not happy about it.”

“I do,” Jay said. “Any trained observer would see it in you. Most men, yes, are not so trained. But it is not those you need fear. If you are in a situation like this the most you need to worry about is a Rohypnol slipped in your drink or date-rape. Don’t drink anything you don’t see poured by the bartender for the former. Since you are intending to fulfill your side of an implied contract inherent in going home with a male from such a party, you need not fear the latter. You, in fact, need to let go of your fear . That is what is trapping you. You will not be the agent you could be until you stop fearing men.”

“I don’t fear men,” Katya said. “I just want to kill them all.”

“Are you refusing to accept my training?” Jay asked calmly.

“No,” Katya replied. That was the one agreement between them. Katya would do whatever Jay told her in training and the only punishment was that, if she stopped learning, if she decided she knew more than he, he would simply stop training her.

Since Katya wanted to know it all , she was very careful to be on her best behavior with the master spy.

“Then do not challenge that statement,” Jay said. “Especially since it’s true. Are you unaware that you fear men or unwilling to admit it?”

“Unwilling to admit it,” Katya said after a moment.

“You cannot carry that baggage and be who you should be,” Jay said. “Almost all women fear men at some level. It is one part of their nature, one you should be aware of. Men are, by and large, bigger, stronger and more aggressive. Men go through life with a predator mindset, women with that of prey. But you, Katya, need never fear them again. You are the predator. What do you fear? Being beaten? You have survived beatings and more. Being raped? You have survived that. Dying? If it came to that, most men would have a hard time killing you unless they surprised you. As you know having killed a few who were trying to do that. You are not one of the girls in this video. You are not virtually defenseless before a stronger male. But you still fear.”

“Yes,” Katya admitted.

“But these women, these girls, these do not,” Jay said, restarting the video. “Watch them carefully. They are enjoying themselves. They have no fear of the stares, of the shouts, of the attention. Oh, a few do. That mousey girl on the left, brown hair and nipples. She is afraid of the attention. Basically introverted I suspect or just raised in a prudish environment. Generally not a problem unless you’re in a situation like that. I have no clue why she is up there having ice water dashed on her. A dare from friends? A boyfriend who has psychological power over her? Drink? But she fears. Could you be her? You would have to wrap yourself around your fear, show it, use it, let it blossom in your eyes? Could you do that? And still be the predator you truly are?”

“No,” Katya said.

“Then, again, you are not the person you must be,” Jay said, stopping the video again. “When you can be that girl, up there on stage in a wet T-shirt contest, on TV no less, afraid of all the consequences, the men suddenly charging the stage, her parents seeing the video, her friends back at college whispering behind her back, guys figuring she’s a slut and only after her body, then, padwan, you will be on the road to perfection. But we will concentrate on the blonde in the striped bathing suit again. Now, in character… Whoop!”

“Mike, open the damned door,” Adams said. The damned wood was hurting his knuckles.

He stepped into the room and looked around. He hadn’t been up to Mike’s sanctum before but it was pretty cozy. A radiator kept it warm, it had nice paneled walls, the chair looked comfortable. On the other hand, it smelled. Stank, really. Booze — the bottles were all over the place — and just the reek of a person who hadn’t washed enough holed up in a small room too long.

“I gotta ask,” Adams said. “What’s behind the steel plate? Everybody is dying to know. A black hole? A TV? What?”

“None of your God-damned business,” Mike said.

Mike Harmon was thirty-seven years old, brown of hair and eye, medium height with a muscular build due to years as a SEAL instructor. An almost prescient talent for silent-kill had earned him the nickname “Ghost” while on the SEAL teams. After sixteen years as a SEAL, mostly an instructor in everything from “direct action” to HALO, he had found himself physically beaten and psychologically unsuitable to the Teams. So he’d gotten out and gone to college. It was a long road to being the Kildar, one with half the terrorists on earth searching for a guy code-named Ghost, but he’d made it every step of the way. The scars on his body, and in his heart, were proof.

“What do you want, Ass-boy?” Mike asked.

“Ass-boy yourself,” Adams replied. “We’ve got a mission.”

“I heard,” Mike said. “We really don’t need the money and I’m tired of laying it on the line over and over and over again. So… no.”

“I want to go.”

“Go.”

“I want to take two teams.”

Mike finally looked at him, then back at the wall.

“Whatever.”

“Is that a ‘yes,’ O Kildar?” Adams asked angrily.

“Just try not to fuck up too much,” Mike said. “Now get out.”

“Christ, I really should beat the crap out of you,” Adams said.

“Do you really think you could?” Mike asked, his teeth grinding.

“In your current condition?” Adams said. “Hell, yeah. Let me tell you something, Kildar . I had a talk with your team chief after you quit. I wanted to know how such a God-damned good operator could have had his ass fucking fired by a chief I knew had his head on his shoulders. And do you want to know what he said? It had dick all to do with the AD, by the way.”

“I could give a fuck less,” Mike said. “Now would you get the fuck out?”

“He said you weren’t hard-core enough,” Adams replied. “Simple as that. You’d gotten soft playing big boy instructor with the meats. You thought it was all a big game, that you could just wave a fucking stress card and get a point for effort. He called you a fucking crybaby. When I pulled you out of that fucking bunker, I couldn’t figure what the fuck he was talking about. But he saw it when I didn’t. You’re a fucking crybaby . So you lost a piece of ass. Ass is cheap, buddy. You got a dozen pieces here in the house. There’s more in the Keldara and they’re all willing and you know it. So get off your fucking ass !”

“You done?” Mike asked calmly.

“Yeah,” Adams said, sighing.

“Go do the mission,” Mike said. “Collect a bonus. Then stay in the fucking States. I don’t want to see your face again after that door shuts.”

“You’re fucking firing me?” Adams said, incredulous. “Well then, fuck you, I’ll just leave .”

“Big mission,” Mike pointed out. “American civilians might die. You might stop that. And do you really want the Keldara wandering around the U.S. alone?”