There was a problem, however, a very urgent problem, which Quigby was powerless to solve. Suddenly he needed to go to the bathroom! And unlike some combat suits that were equipped to recycle waste, the prototype was not. Sergeant Findlay could lead the troops, of course, but that would mean missing a rare opportunity to impress his father, so Quigby chose to gamble instead.
Thanks to the fact that the ceremonial jump had been practiced at least fifty times, the orders came naturally, as Quigby instructed the platoon to stand by, and watched the last few seconds tick away. Then, as he said, “Jump!” the entire platoon took to the air.
There wasn’t much to do on the way up, as thirty-six sets of armor soared over the line of trees that bordered the parade ground and quickly reached apogee. At that point it was necessary to cut power for a second and fire steering jets as gravity pulled the hardskins down. The problem was that Quigby had lost control of his bowels by then, along with the CMC-230-XE itself.
The result was an amazing and almost perfectly synchronized THUMP as thirty-five sets of boots hit the ground at once, each gleaming soldier standing at attention. All except for Quigby, that is, who landed on his back in the middle of the buffet table, thereby destroying it and showering all of the VIPs with flying food!
People began to scream.
That was bad enough, but the moment was made immeasurably worse when the suit’s onboard computer decided that Quigby was in need of immediate medical attention and blew itself open so that medical personnel could access his body. That left a mostly naked Quigby lying spread-eagled on top of the wreckage with a dazed expression on his face, and semi-liquid feces all over his light-colored pants. General Quigby was not amused. Nor was Colonel Vanderspool.
Without opening his visor, Tychus communicated with his squad over the comm. “Doc? What the hell happened? What’s wrong with Quigby? Over.”
There was a long moment of silence—followed by Cassidy’s voice. “It’s really hard to say, Sarge, but if I had to guess, I’d say it was something in the water. Over.”
That was followed by an explosion of laughter, the sound of an approaching siren, and an order from the battalion’s furious executive officer. The review was over.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
“No question about it; I’m gonna be strong and tough and smart, and I’m gonna help all the farmers here get free from them bankers. Stick by your people: that’s what Pa says.”
FORT HOWE, ON THE PLANET TURAXIS II
The sun was low in the sky, shadows lay long on the ground, and the air was starting to cool as Lisa Cassidy prepared to leave the base. Although the nearby city of Whitford lay in ruins, and the Honky Tonk District that adjoined Fort Howe had suffered some collateral damage during the recent attack, the HTD—as the troops referred to it—was not only resilient but still open twenty-five hours a day. And as Doc slipped out through the west gate, the two-block-deep strip of tawdry bars, strip joints, and flophouses took her in.
The HTD was her real home in many respects, since none of the bartenders, thieves, or hookers who lived there thought less of Cassidy because she was a crab addict. On the contrary, they understood her in a way that her military buddies couldn’t. And that granted Doc a sort of sleazy legitimacy her fellow rangers couldn’t hope for and weren’t seeking.
Still, Cassidy liked the other members of her squad well enough, even if they were absurdly easy to manipulate. Something that made her feel slightly guilty but a bit smug, too. Because, at the end of the day, it was each person’s responsibility to look out for themselves.
And in her case that meant feeding Colonel Vanderspool a steady stream of information in return for relative freedom and a steady supply of crab. And that was a delicate task. Because if she said too much, her squad mates might find out, and if she said too little, Vanderspool would send her to a work camp.
“Hey, hottie, you need some company?” a soldier inquired hopefully, as Doc made her way past the sidewalk table where he and his buddies were seated.
“I’ll let you know if I get that desperate,” the medic said as she cleared the bar and took a right. She could hear the soldiers laughing as she followed a narrow passageway back between two buildings. It reeked of urine, was littered with empties, and decorated with graffiti.
The walkway emptied into a rather pleasant courtyard that fronted a restaurant called The Gourmand. The establishment was way too expensive for enlisted people, which was one of the reasons Vanderspool chose to eat there. That and the fact that his mistress had an apartment on the second floor.
So Cassidy weaved between linen-covered tables to the restaurant’s south wall, climbed a set of stairs to the second floor, and followed a wraparound balcony to the front of the building, just as she had on prior occasions. Vanderspool was sitting on a wicker chair near a pair of glass doors. They were open to the apartment beyond, and the faint strains of classical music could be heard from within.
Like his guest, the officer was dressed in civvies. His outfit consisted of a yellow silk shirt, nicely tailored brown slacks, and a pair of basket weave slip-ons. He held a glass of red wine in his right hand and there was a bottle at his elbow. He nodded formally. “There you are, my dear … right on time. Punctuality is a military virtue, isn’t it? And it has to be since lives are often at stake. Please sit down. Would you care for a glass of wine?”
“No, sir. Thank you,” Cassidy replied politely, as she took a seat.
Vanderspool winked knowingly. “It can’t compare to ten milligrams of crab, I suppose… . Although it’s a helluva lot cheaper!”
Doc forced a smile. “Yes, sir.”
“So,” Vanderspool said reflectively, as he took a sip of wine. “What can you tell me about the unbelievable fiasco that took place the day before yesterday?”
Cassidy knew the officer was referring to the review—and the manner in which Lieutenant Quigby had been publicly humiliated. “Tell you, sir?” she inquired innocently. “I’m not sure what you mean.”
“Don’t be coy,” Vanderspool said sternly. “You aren’t very good at it—and it pisses me off. We had the water from Quigby’s suit analyzed. It was laced with a couple of powerful drugs, plus a fast-acting laxative. The lieutenant thinks you were out to get him—but I’m betting on Findlay or one of his men.”
Doc’s first instinct was to blame Tychus, since that was the path of least resistance, but on second thought she realized how stupid such a course might be. Because if the colonel had one spy, he could have two, and the whole squad knew she was responsible. So she looked Vanderspool in the eye and told the truth. “Lieutenant Quigby is correct, sir … I was responsible.”
Vanderspool was so surprised by the admission that he sloshed wine onto the tablecloth as he set the glass down. “You?” he demanded. “But why?”
“Two reasons,” Cassidy answered calmly. “First, I really detest the little bastard. And, no offense, sir, but some officers behave like assholes just for the fun of it.
“Second, these guys have a very tight relationship. I’m in, but jerking Quigby around solidified my position. Now they really trust me. Wouldn’t you say that’s important, sir?”
A full five seconds of silence passed. During that time the medic saw a number of expressions come and go on Vanderspool’s face, including anger, calculation, and a grudging smile. “I have to give you credit,” the officer said. “You are a scheming bitch. No offense intended,” he added sarcastically.