John Ringo: Cally's War

She set the hot pink leather wallet on the dresser and closed the drawer, grabbing a miniscule bra and panties in matching silver-gray lace. She showered, and washed her hair, adding the tiniest hint of dark at the roots and such, Pamela not being a natural blonde. She pulled out a bottle of gray lotion and applied it carefully, rinsing and checking the result. As always, no streaking, no fading, no patches, and absolutely no tan lines.

She went back to her closet and stood for a minute, finding the role. “Pamela. Smart, casual. Likes pinks, grays.” She put a pink v-necked blouse, a pair of gray pedal pushers, and a burlap beach bag on the bed, and took a pair of brown strappy flats out of one of the cubbyholes built into the closet wall. “Watch? Yeah, brown-strapped analog.” She added them to the beach bag.

After she was dressed, she went looking for breakfast. Pamela meant grapefruit, but first she frowned over Sarah’s shoes on the living-room floor and went to put them in their proper place.

After breakfast, she drove to the mall. There was only the one in New Charleston so far, but it was always crowded. Ex-urbies adjusting to surface life tended to find it comfortingly reminiscent of home, and even teenage Charleston natives appreciated the air conditioning. Low Country Nails and Spa was on the lower level near one end, and she walked in with a smile ready, fastening on a curly-haired brunette who was puttering behind the counter.

“Jeannie?” she said.

“Pamela!” The other girl greeted her with a sunny smile, “Where have you been hiding, girl, it’s been weeks !”

“Visiting my mom and sister in the Cairo Urb, and boy, am I glad to see the light of day again! Got time for a bunch? I need my hands and feet done and I would just die for one of your cucumber facials.”

“How on earth did you keep that tan in an Urb?” The other girl came out from behind the counter and gently ushered her back to a seat at a small table set with the tools of her trade. “You must have been using a sun bed every other day.”

“Just about that. Would that watermelon pink go with my skin, or should I go with more of a rose today?”

“Hmm. Let’s see…” She held a couple of bottles of nail polish up against Cally’s hands. “I think you can carry off the watermelon. In a bit of a playful mood?”

“In a mood for some serious fun.” Cally grinned mischievously. “The Urb was like being buried alive.”

“They always are.” Jeannie tsked softly. “Girlfriend, you are under way too much stress, and you’re not eating right.” She held up one of Cally’s fingers where she’d just trimmed a cuticle. “Look at these ridges. But I’m not too surprised. Family can be the worst for stress, and they still don’t get very good food underground. Not like you can get out here.”

“That’s for sure. Urb cafeterias do not serve she-crab stew.”

“Seafood’s all right, but you’ve got to eat your fresh veggies or you’ll be old before your time. And drink lots of water. Give me a minute.” She stepped into the back and came out with a pair of glasses and a pitcher of ice water. “Here. Distilled and remineralized. Best water this side of the Blue Ridge.”

Seven hours later Cally put away two new outfits and a pair of shoes, did her hair, added a couple of strands of freshwater pearls, and went back out for pub grub, some decent music, and whatever fun she could find tonight. One good thing about a beach town. Even after the Postie war, there’s always something. Pappas Street down near El Cid is always good for some fun.

Oddly enough, the Citadel had suffered little actual damage in the war. Charleston had been thoroughly evacuated, so there had been no food, from the Posleen view. Many historic buildings had been left completely intact, along with the Battery, and the centuries old military school. Nobody knew quite what the Posties had seen in the collection of white, crenellated buildings — only that the campus had suffered a very little careful looting and had been recaptured virtually intact. It had recently celebrated the thirty-fifth anniversary of its reopening as a university and training academy for future Fleet Strike officers. While graduation did not guarantee a commission in the postwar world, it opened vast fields of opportunity and acceptance was highly coveted by young men as a ticket out of the constrained life of the Urbs.

Where there were young men, there were bars, and music, and nobody she had to kill. Usually. All in all, a good place to have a good time.

Old Tommy’s Pub was always good, getting both the liquid and musical imports fresh off the boat from Ireland. Irish music, with its irrepressible ability to make the best of a hard lot, was enjoying something of a revival. Even if ballads and marches about armored ACS knights facing centauroid monsters weren’t strictly traditional, Ireland’s modern bards recognized their cultural value in a post-Posleen world and rose to the task brilliantly. A bodhran not only fit on a small pub stage, it also laid a surprisingly good foundation for the screaming treble of a vintage Stratocaster. Well, it would be screaming in a couple of hours, anyway. Right now the instruments were cased and a couple of the guys sitting in the corner grabbing a bite were probably the musicians. With that hair, they sure weren’t cadets.

Cally pulled up a barstool and ordered a Killians and a seafood salad, then spent the next hour or so flirting with the bartender and waiting for the band to start. The cadets came in in dribs and drabs through the evening. Most of them looked too young to shave and were strictly no-touchies, no matter how much they tried to catch her eye, but one of them looked a little older than the rest and moved like he was prior service, even though the marks on his summer whites indicated a junior — with a fine butt. He’d do.

She caught his eye and raised her glass, offering a friendly smile. He froze for a second and looked back over his shoulder, as if unsure she was looking at him, and excused himself from his buddies, bringing his bottle of Bud over as his friends tried not to be too obvious about taking bets on a crash and burn.

“Uh… hi. Mind if I join you?” He set his beer on the bar at the empty stool next to her.

“I’d like that.”

“I’m Mark.” He looked at her practically full beer with something like desperation and offered, “Um… come here often?” Then just as obviously sat cursing himself for saying something so trite and unbrilliant.

“Not often enough, since I haven’t met you.” She smiled kindly and offered her hand. “I’m Pamela. Been at the Citadel long?”

“See these stripes? They mean I’m a junior.” He grinned easily, back on familiar ground, “Freshmen have none, sophomores one, seniors are those guys walking around in blazers. But I’m actually going into my second year. Prior service.” His chest puffed up a tiny bit, probably subconsciously, as he said the last.

“Oh? Where’d you serve?”

“Africa. There just aren’t enough humans there to permanently displace the Posleen, and the Posties inherit skills that humans would have to learn. So Fleet Strike has forces there that rotate through on semi-random sweeps to try to dislodge the small bands of ferals before they become big bands.”

“Was it hard? Even ferals are so big .” She leaned an elbow on the bar and sat forward slightly, eyes wide. “I’ve only seen them on the holotank, of course. You must really be brave to have volunteered for that. Were you in, you know, one of those armored suits?”

“Don’t I wish.” He shook his head. “Those guys are really hard core, and they only take the very best. We didn’t have very many of them in Africa. Most of them are out on the new planets tossing the Posties off to make room for colonists.” He grinned faintly. “Sometimes ACS will take a new service academy graduate with a really good record, so I’ve still got a shot.” His eyes flickered down to her chest, occasionally, but overall he was fighting a valiant battle to keep them in the vicinity of her face, “So what about you, what do you do?”