John Ringo - Cally's War

It took some creative stacking involving her suitcase, the hotel alarm clock, and the Gideons’ Bible from the desk drawer to rig the scrubber above the hot plate and above the height of the tumbler. Grinding the various solids to a consistency to dissolve easily in the warm ether just took a bit of patience. From a small pouch in her suitcase a couple of other bottles yielded various metabolites that ought to be found in Petane’s system. Voila. Instant history of abuse. Good for about seventy-two hours in solution. Anything goes wrong on Monday I’ll have to make up fresh ones, though. She poured each solution into one of the screw cap shakers, sealing the holes in the lids securely with duct tape, putting a tiny mark on each — red for her, blue for him — and put them in the small fridge, hanging the Do Not Disturb sign out on the doorknob. Wouldn’t do to have maid service in, now would it?

She cleaned up her minimal mess and put the gear away out of sight in the lower dresser drawer, resetting the hotel clock radio after plugging it back in where it was supposed to go. Amazing that it was only four in the afternoon. Time enough to grab a snack and a stylish new outfit — she wrinkled her nose at the creases in the clothes in her suitcase — before going out. Now where can a girl find some fun on a Saturday night in Chicago?

It was a few minutes past seven when she boarded the express train to the Fleet Recruit Training Command, clad in a blue plaid pleated mini skirt, bobby socks, low-heeled black leather pumps, and a white oxford shirt. She took the few minutes of the train ride to paint lips and nails a playful pink and subtly emphasize the big, wide, brown eyes. Thank you, Wendy. Raccoon eyes the right way, indeed.

The data on the net was right. Across the street from the train station was a modest cedar-sided building, clearly built to resemble an old prewar lake cabin, with a sign in English and Kanji informing patrons that this was the Famous New Kobe Sushi Bar and Pool Emporium. A small cloud of the thick tobacco smoke wafted out the door as she opened it, along with a not-unpleasant mix of soy, ginger, wasabi, and beer. Judging from the number of Fleet uniforms in attendance, she’d found her fun. A quick glance around the room as she entered, smiling mischievously at the wolf whistles, showed that one of Milwaukee’s finest was the local fad brew. Worked for her. She took a seat at the bar and ordered herself one, but accepted the intervention of one of the spacers who jumped to buy it for her.

“Well, I can’t ask if you come here often, because I’d sure remember seeing you, so… Hi. I’m Eric Takeuchi.” He held out his hand for hers, but when he took it instead of shaking it he brought it to his lips, watching her carefully to make sure he wasn’t crossing the line.

Seducer. Do I want to play? Dunno. She took him in at a glance. The straight black hair that was just a little long for regulation in front and tended to flop a bit on his forehead, the cheerful male interest in the dark brown eyes, the impeccable uniform. He’s nice enough looking, I guess, but definitely a prince charming rather than a prince sincere type. Dunno yet. A bit of dinner, a few games of pool. Maybe if he’s a gracious loser.

She tried to pay for her own mixed sashimi sampler, but politely accepted the gift when he protested.

“Wanna play a couple of games?” She gestured with her beer towards a table that had just come open.

“Sure. So you like pool?”

Sociable, amiable, not too bright. She picked up her plate in the other hand and walked over, setting it on the beer table and going through the cues on the rack looking for one that was basically straight.

“You want first break?” He set his own beer beside hers and picked one himself, setting it against the table as he racked up the balls.

“Sure.” At least he got the balls grouped nice and tight on the spot. She chalked her hands before accepting the cue ball from him — placed it, lined up her shot, and smacked the cue solidly, suppressing a smug grin as two stripes found a pocket.

“Guess I’m solids.” He toasted her with his beer. “Definitely not a girl break.”

“All bust, no balls,” she recited with him as he got up and started walking around the table to pick his shot.

“You’ve heard it.”

“I might have heard it a couple of times.” She grinned tightly. Ah, well, at my age how many new jokes are there, anyway. To run, or not to run, that is the question. Ah, hell, better behave… but he deserves it. Nah, gotta behave.

She picked out the fourteen ball and called it for the left corner pocket, lined up her shot and carefully hit it just a bit too hard. It hit the pocket square on and bounced back onto the felt, leaving the cue ball set up for a nice slightly off-straight shot at the one ball in the right side pocket. She winced convincingly and pursed her lips. “Well, at least I didn’t knock any of your balls in. Your turn.”

“Uh, yeah.” He looked at her for a second and shook his head, as if shaking off a thought.

“What?” She smirked at him and dipped a rice, blue fin, and nori roll into the ginger and wasabi sauce, delicately biting into it, watching him, her other hand cupped underneath the tidbit to catch any drips.

“No, I can’t say that,” he said, grinning broadly and shaking his head.

“Fine, be that way.” She tilted her head thoughtfully as he gestured at two corner pockets and dropped the one and the seven neatly. On his next shot the cue ball had a bit too much clockwise spin on a tricky bank shot and the four hit the felt and came to rest blocking the left side pocket.

She arched her back in a light stretch that kept her hands in close to her body, picked up her cue stick, and padded over to the opposite side of the table. Okay, do I lose artfully, take him outside, and trip him, or do I risk him being a sorehead and play a bit? She glanced around casually at the rest of the bar, which was filling up with nicely turned out uniforms and had a couple of guys wheeling largish speakers out onto the small stage. Fuck it. I hate losing. If he’s a dick about it, well, the place is hardly empty.

He was bouncing lightly on the balls of his feet, obviously just itching to pace. Instead, he pulled up a chair and straddled it, taking a pull of his beer before resting his arms across the chair back. She gave him her best little-girl smile.

“I think I can drop the eleven and the fourteen in that pocket.” She gestured with a finger towards the corner pocket and pouted at him. “If I try it, you’re not going to be upset if I hit a couple of other little balls on the way, are you?”

He raised his eyebrows but waved one arm in a deliberately gallant gesture, “Of course not, my lady.”

He thinks he’s hunting me. How cute. The sweet smile twitched slightly as she bent over the cue and smacked it, hard, into the three, which sent the eleven neatly into the corner pocket while the cue ball banked off the felt on the opposite side, came back and nudged the fourteen, which dropped neatly, leaving the cue ball poised delicately on the edge of the hole.

“Wow! I made it!” She clapped her hands delightedly, eyes wide.

He choked slightly on his beer, but she had to give him credit on the recovery. “An excellent shot. You’re obviously as accomplished as you are beautiful.”

Poor puppy. He still lays it on just a bit too thick. Ah well, at least he’s likely to be enthusiastic. She gestured towards the stage that had now sprouted a drum set and a line of cable that was being trailed back to a mixer board at the back of the bar. One of the guys in jeans and T-shirt setting up the show was following behind the cabler carefully duct-taping it to the floor — presumably to protect the servers and the drunks. “Are they any good?”