Jeff felt a minor stab of jealousy at this revelation, but only a mild one. In Martian culture it was not all that unusual to have sex with others for the sheer enjoyment of it, even when in a committed relationship — which he and Xenia certainly were not in. "Yeah," he said. "I guess I wouldn't turn down a little action."
"That's my boy," she said, reaching across the table and caressing his cheek. "So where you gonna take her?"
"Her place?" he asked.
"Or you can take her to my place," she suggested. "I got a spare bedroom you can stay in. No strings attached."
"And you won't try to fuck me?" he asked.
She gave him a saucy smile. "I didn't say that."
"I won't do it," he told her. "I told you how I feel about you. I told you what you have to do to get a piece of me."
"Fine," she pouted. "But the offer is still open."
"I'll think about it," he said.
"You do that. I'll see you at the Troop Club. I'll be the one rubbing my wet pussy over everything in sight."
"Except me," he said.
She stood up and leaned over him, lifting his chin up. She kissed him gently on the mouth, a soft, sensuous kiss that sent chills down his spine. "I didn't promise that either," she said.
She walked away without another word, leaving him with a raging erection.
Jeff found that the MarsTrans system was still operating under emergency operation rules. Although it was back to running on a normal schedule there were armed MPG military police in each car and there was no charge being levied for any passengers. He simply walked past the turnstiles and the empty guard booth and boarded, finding a seat near the rear among many other men and women, most of whom were in MPG shirts and T-shirts like he was.
As he rode towards Helvetia Heights and the place he'd called home since birth, he took out his PC and powered it up for the first time since they'd been deployed outside. The first thing he accessed was the financial software, fearing what he would find. All of the credits he'd been paid since his first day of basic training had been placed into his main bank account, which was a joint account he shared with Belinda. He hadn't talked to her or emailed her since he'd left for basic training three months before but he'd kept an eye on his accounts during that time, watching for her to start spending all of the new form of Martian money. To his surprise, she hadn't. She'd left the credits completely alone but had regularly spent the dollars in the account when they were deposited every two weeks by the Martian welfare system. As he checked now he saw that the credit account was at just over seven hundred — pretty much where it had been before deploying outside although his last bi-weekly pay allotment had been deposited since.
"Dumb bitch," he muttered, shaking his head in amusement. She was too stupid to spend the new money like she'd spent dollars. Oh well, that was good news for him.
He then checked the dollar account to see how bad that was. Typically she had spent the entire eight hundred dollar allotment within days of receiving it. To his utter surprise and suspicion he saw that the balance was not in the negative as he'd expected, or even close to it. There was almost ten thousand dollars in there. Ten times more than had ever been in there at one time in the past.
"What the fuck?" he asked the screen. It had no answers for him. At least not yet. He paged over to the list of recent transactions and the mystery only deepened. There were multitudes of them there, mostly deposits from other personal bank accounts in fifty and one hundred dollar increments. Interspersed among these were other, outgoing transactions of six hundred to seven hundred at a time to other personal bank accounts. Something very strange was going on with his soon to be ex-wife.
The MarsTrans train dropped him off six blocks from his building. As he walked toward it, through streets that he and his fellow gang members had once ruled, he noticed a stark difference from the last time he'd been here. There were still gangs of juveniles about but they didn't seem as tough as they once had, nor as numerous. Though some were drinking Fruity it was the exception rather than the rule — ditto for cigarette smoking. When he passed them they gave him deference and respectful nods, not because of the Capitalist tattoo — for that was covered by the sleeve of his T-shirt — but because of his uniform.
"Free Mars, man," one of them told him as he passed. "You guys kicked some fuckin' ass out there."
"Fuckin' aye," Jeff replied, exchanging a Capitalist shake with him, to their collective delight.
"Were you in the shit, man?" another asked. "Out on the fuckin' line?"
"17th ACR," he told them, knowing they would know what that meant.
They did. "The fuckin' Jutfield Gap, man!" one said excitedly. "You walked the fuckin' war to 'em out there, man! That was fuckin' static!"
"Hell yeah," another said. "I tried to join up but they wouldn't fuckin' let me 'cause I'm too young still."
"Me too," said another. "I only got two more months to go though and my print's on the fuckin' line, man!"
"Hell yeah!" said several others, which prompted another round of Capitalist shakes.
They tried to prod Jeff for details of the action but he deferred, telling them he had some important shit he had to attend to. They respectfully said their farewells and told him once again how badass he was. He walked away with a smile on his face and shortly arrived before his building.
The building looked the same, from the graffiti in the lobby to the graffiti in the hallways. When he reached the door to apartment 6312 he paused, staring at the numbers for a few moments, bracing himself for the confrontation he was about to embark upon. Finally he put his finger to the door panel, letting it read his print. The door slid open and a smell rushed out at him, a horrid odor of stale alcohol, old urine, and rotting garbage. It was almost as bad as the locker room back at the MPG base.
"Jesus fucking Christ," he muttered, fighting back a gag. He stepped into the living room and looked around in disgusted amazement. Garbage was strewn everywhere. Old laundry, empty beer cans and Fruity bottles, overflowing ashtrays, and food containers from the welfare mart store in the basement of the building. Belinda had never been the best housekeeper in the solar system but this was far beyond her worst episodes of domestic laziness.
The door slid shut behind him and we walked further into the room. Belinda was nowhere in sight. He walked into the kitchen and found an even bigger mess, with more empty bottles and cans, more garbage strewn about, more cigarette butts. He found something else that was very interesting as well. Stacked against the pantry door were more than twenty cases of Fruity, thirty cases of canned beer, and sixty cartons of premium cigarettes.
"Holy shit," he muttered. He turned towards the living room and then stopped. He went over to the cartons of cigarettes and opened one, pulling out a five packs — as much as he could carry. He stuffed all but one in his pockets. The last he opened, extracting one of the smokes. He walked to the stove, pushed aside a week's worth of garbage and dirty dishes, and then lit up using one of the burners, inhaling deeply.
"Nice," he said, savoring the flavor and the instant rush of nicotine to his brain. Those Earthlings were a bunch of corporate worshiping assholes but they sure knew how to make a decent smoke.
He took a few more drags and then tossed the butt into the sink when he started to feel queasy. He then walked through the kitchen and back into the living room. The bedroom door was closed. He hesitated for another second or two and then pushed the button that opened it. It slid on its track revealing what had to be the filthiest room in the house. The old laundry and the booze bottles covered every square centimeter of the floor and most of the bed. The sheets, blankets, and comforter that had been a wedding present from Jeff's parents were piled in a heap with the rest of the laundry. Lying naked on the bare mattress, snoring drunkenly, was Belinda, a half bottle of Fruity still sitting on the nightstand along with an overflowing ashtray and a half burned cigarette. Her legs were slightly spread and a dried crust of semen was plainly visible leaking out of her vagina.