"Parachute's not deployed
And ground's getting depressingly near.
Life, I love you so much
But you don't care for me, old bitch!"—"Life, I Love You," a Russian skydivers' folk song
Assault training was run differently from recruit training. The instructors were no less forgiving, no less demanding, but they didn't act as condescendingly. They did require just as much effort.
Kendra signed in, comm chips and gear were thrown at her, a bunk assigned and a schedule laid out. A few segs later, they were boarding a shuttle for orbit again. They docked at a habitat and were stuffed into cubes, as before.
The training involved the specialized weapons and loads for fighting within a habitat. They learned to breach airlocks, override controls and to maneuver quickly in tight quarters. Emphasis was placed again on unarmed combat, since they were more likely in such confines to wind up in the midst of enemy forces. They ran exercises all day long and much of several nights. Then it was outside to rehearse assaults.
They trained with small assault pods for approaching and grappling quickly, pre-packaged explosive charges and plasma torches for cutting hulls, and learned to recognize and disable antennas and sensors. They used heavier weapons for those purposes and drilled again and again for precision and accuracy.
After nine days, they crammed rapidly into an assault pod and dropped through the atmosphere. They landed hard and deployed for attack. The instructors came around and berated them for sloppiness. After seeing the video of it, Kendra could agree. They took a ride into the stratosphere on a converted civilian ballistic craft and dropped again. Then again. They interspersed that with standard landings and "hot unloads" from the cargo bays, where they slid out the back on ACVs and parachute-retarded wheeled vehicles. Several vehicles took spills and there were minor casualties. They were reminded that in warfare those "minor" casualties would all be dead.
Anyone casualtied missed lunch the next day, regardless of whose fault it was. The purpose was to reinforce the risks involved and encourage attention to detail. It became a running joke about the "crash diet" they were all on. It lasted eleven more days, because the long flights into low orbit or the stratosphere made for tedious waiting for flights and flight-time. Kendra was only too glad to be done with it. She'd bruised all over from the impacts and decided that was not the most personnel-friendly way to fight.
That night, she took a few moments to call home. Rob answered and assured her he and Marta would be there the next evening. She asked if he needed directions and blushed when he replied with a smile, "I'm familiar with the base." Of course he was. She disconnected before she could say anything sappy. That could wait until they met. It felt odd to be talking to them. Unlike the UNPF, Freehold military training enforced separation from friends and family. She realized it had been some weeks since they'd last spoken.
Day twenty-one. They woke, were trotted to a hangar and drilled again through the basics of parachuting. They did several rehearsals on the ground before departing for the airfac. The traditional VC-6s were waiting and prepared to lift.
Instead of boarding, they shrugged into harnesses and clipped themselves to racks on the outside, reporting readiness through their helmet mikes. Kendra gulped in fear. She hated heights, and this was not the way she wanted to experience them. Before she could steady her nerves, the pilot lifted, straight up and fast.
She clung to her webbing and tried to lean back against the side of the craft as it jostled her. Breathe, she reminded herself as she gasped in a lungful of cold, fresh air. It helped. The ground expanded beneath them, features retreating as they drifted over the adjoining drop zone at five hundred meters. She listened to the pilot and instructor coordinating the drop and tried to unclench her knuckles. She had a dizzying view down through a cloud and looked quickly at the horizon as she'd been taught. It didn't help much.
"Stand by," her helmet advised. She prayed silently and closed her eyes briefly. Before she could finish, the voice said, "Go."
The snaps popped free and she dropped like the proverbial rock. As it registered, her stomach rose into her throat. Then she was yanked by the static line and gravity pulled her into the harness. "One," she counted, suddenly reminded of the procedure for emergencies, but the gear functioned flawlessly and the backup automatic system was unnecessary, as were the procedures she'd learned in the morning's drills. She counted two, twisted her head to check the canopy for inflation, then stared at it for emotional support. those few kilos of fabric were keeping her from slamming into the ground. The count should have taken through five and she'd screwed it up, but at least her gear was working.
She grabbed her toggles and steered toward the target, watching for others. She was experiencing a rush and decided she could get used to this in time. Some were far more enthusiastic and two who had prior experience with parachutes were pulling stunts. She hoped they were soundly punished for the crime of enjoying themselves. Then she began to enjoy it herself. Io was shining, the sky was clear and the temperature was comfortably warm inside her jumpsuit. She kept looking up at her canopy for reassurance and back down at the closing ground.
She touched down near the target and rolled as she'd been taught. With the oversize, overstable gear the students were issued, it was unnecessary, but good practice. One should always get low in combat, she recalled.
They went up again immediately. Then a third time, jumping through a troop door in the side, then once more off the ramp at the rear. They were all aching from the harnesses tugging at them when they broke for the day.
They had the evening and next day free for Equinox and Kendra looked eagerly forward to Marta and Rob visiting. They were due about seven. She waited in the dayroom, not wanting to miss them by trying to anticipate their arrival at the gate.
"Bay, ten-shut!" someone bellowed and Kendra snapped to with the others. "Officer in the bay!" the speaker continued.
"As you were," a voice replied. She recognized it. Rob's. What the hell?
She turned to see him and Marta in undress greens. Marta looked as stunning as ever and Rob was wearing lieutenant's pips.
From habit, she snapped to attention again. "When did that happen, sir?" She asked, half joking.
"Geez, dear, relax," he laughed. "You don't have to call me 'sir,' my parents were married. I'm only dressed for dinner. Okura retired right on schedule and Bimi left for command school. That left a slot open, I'm ranking pilot, instructor qualified and have combat time, so I got Second Flight." He took a breath and added, "You look great."
She doubted that, with short hair and a uniform, but it was really good to see him. Marta turned slightly and gestured. "Are you ready, love?"
"Uh, let me get my rifle," she said. "And I invited Asher to come with us." She indicated him with her left hand. "Asher, Rob and Marta," she introduced awkwardly as she hurried to her bunk, self-consciously avoiding them.
Asher stood nearly at attention, trying to look relaxed, and greeted them, "Sir, Sergeant."
They were almost small-talking when she returned with her rifle. Asher was already armed, and they left. Rob told the recruit on guard not to call the bay to attention and they departed without fanfare, although Kendra could still feel numerous eyes staring in their direction, mostly at Marta.
They climbed into a rented aircar and strapped down. Marta promptly grabbed her and planted an eager kiss on her. She kissed back until oxygen deprivation cut in. Then it was Rob's turn.
While she recovered from the attention, Rob lifted and turned the car simultaneously. "Now that you've had some air time, I can fly like a real pilot," he joked as he rammed the throttle home. There were gasps and a giggle from Marta as gees shoved them into the seat. "Rob's a Hatchet pilot," she advised Asher over her shoulder.
Marta was next to him and added, "Yeah. And he got the CfC on Mtali. If his flying bothers you, just do what he does," she said as setup.
"What's that?" Asher asked, unsure and staring wide-eyed out the window.
"I close my eyes!" Rob shouted, laughing.
He slowed down and dropped into the local traffic pattern and in a few segs landed and roaded. "This the place you meant?" he asked Kendra.
"Yes. Asher brought me here two weeks ago." Was that all it was? It seemed years.
They walked across the road and into the hewn-stone building. There was a line waiting for service, but the Freehold operated differently from Earth. As soon as the staff saw the combat medals on Rob and Marta, they were ushered in and not a word of protest was spoken behind them. The manager personally delivered a bottle of wine, announcing it was with his compliments for anyone with a Citation for Courage. "Who do I have to kill for champagne?" Rob joked, then thanked him graciously.
The food was really good and Marta split her attention three ways with surprising ease. Then Kendra realized it shouldn't be surprising. Rob was polite and friendly with Asher and gave Marta occasional touches and conversation, but most of his attention was on Kendra. She reciprocated. She wondered how the evening was going to be, but Marta clearly had it under control and Kendra trusted her to handle it. She dug into her lemon-pepper roasted chicken and was dizzy-headed on wine in short order. It didn't take much.
"The short hair suits you," Marta said. She reached up and brushed the thick blond strands, now almost five centimeters long.
"Uh, sure," Kendra replied sarcastically. "You might have warned me about that."
"Why? Don't they do that in the UN?" Marta looked as surprised as Kendra had been when she got shorn.
Another gulf. She let the topic drop and got back into the conversation. "I think the second jump was scarier than the first," she said.
Asher nodded. "I wasn't going to admit it, but yes," he said.
"Was for me, too," Rob agreed. "The first one is an unknown. You'll learn to enjoy them."
"I do already," she purred and stroked his thigh. He laughed.
"Wait until you try free fall," Marta said. "The most fun you can have with your clothes on," she snickered.
After eating and drinking and chatting for a while, they stood and wandered out. Rob left a generous tip and thanked the manager. The service had been unobtrusively excellent.
Rob took her hand against slight resistance and commented, "This whole decorum thing in uniform takes some getting used to. You need to relax a little." She tried to do so and moved closer. On the other side, Marta undecorously mashed up against her and held out her other arm for Asher, who was looking a bit out of place. He brightened and took it.
The hotel Marta had booked was pricier than the one Asher had sprung for. She would have to let him know that Marta was loaded with cash and liked spending so he wouldn't feel too put upon.
The elevator was on the small side and they shifted to fit. It wound up with Rob and Kendra standing together, Marta and Asher behind them. They walked down the hall that way and were still two couples when they entered the room.
Kendra pulled Rob against her inside the door and he grinned as he met her lips. He kissed along her chin and down her throat, making her arch in response. His hands on her hips and his weight against her were long-missed thrills.
Then Marta elbowed her way in. "Don't be greedy!" She smiled at Rob. Then she attacked with a ferocity Kendra had never felt before. Finally breaking, Kendra slumped against the wall, lust and alcohol making her giddy.
"I think you and Rob should burn off your mindless lust and we can play later. Meanwhile, Ash here can keep me entertained," Marta said. Asher had been feeling left out and looked it. He flushed red as Marta eyed him, clearly enjoying the idea.
After long, sweaty segs in a variety of positions, they broke apart. Rob sprawled back, gasping, and Kendra leaned to stretch out kinks. Mar ran questing fingers up her neck and began to massage the knots. She much preferred Rob's attention, but she had missed Marta just as much. She drew Mar into an embrace and let her hands and mouth drift across the flawless olive skin.
If it wasn't for her current heavy exercise program, she figured she'd have collapsed from exhaustion by now. Marta had been as energetic and demanding as always. She was about to beg for a break, but when she sat, catching her breath for a second, she saw the look in Ash's eyes. She pulled him close and spread atop him, feeling him inside her, aroused again and ready. He kissed her eagerly and she delighted in it.
She opened her eyes to find Mar kissing her and the men asleep. "Feeling okay?" Mar asked.
"Sure. Did I black out?" she asked.
"Not as such. You mumbled a few words about being ruined for regular sex, then fell asleep."
"Oh," she replied wittily.
"Speaking of which," Marta added as she began caressing her again. Kendra wondered if she was going to be allowed to sleep any more.
They spent the next day on a six-meter sailboat on Mirror Lake. She gratefully stripped naked and sunbathed as soon as the temperature permitted. It had been so long since she'd been outside without clothes that she felt odd about it again. She declined to join Marta in a dip over the side, however. The young woman resurfaced dripping and howling, her nipples crinkled from the cold and her lips taking on a blue cast for a few segs.
Rob pulled the tiller taut against the breeze, tacking them. He was experienced with sailing vessels too, and Kendra wondered again just how many skills were in his repertoire. She lazed on the deck while Marta teased Ash again. They munched a picnic lunch and headed back in the afternoon as Io began to bake them. There were hundreds of boats out by then, and Rob steered carefully. Kendra nodded at appreciative stares, still not used to them. Marta played to the audience and had a great time.
Mar was definitely amused by Asher. She was kissing and caressing him as they sat relaxing in the room. "You realize how lucky you are, I hope," Kendra grinned. "What would last night have cost him?" she asked Marta.
Considering, Marta said, "Sex with some variations, voyeurism, extended oral, about two divs worth . . . two thousand credits would cover it."
Asher looked suitably impressed. "Wow," he said. "Kendra said you were high priced, but wow."
"You don't think I'm worth it?" Marta asked with a cruel grin.
"Uh, yes!" he agreed quickly. Despite his minimal experience, he knew Marta was incredibly skilled and he'd be pondering the differences between her and Kendra, while trying hard not to rate them against each other. It was amusing, but Kendra was glad they weren't involved more than casually. It could get very confused and ugly if they were.
Marta dropped them at the barracks the next morning with twenty segs to spare. They changed and were ready for free-fall training, Kendra still a bit stiff from athletic sex.
After the daily exercise and shooting, they listened to the lecture again and ran through rehearsals one-on-one with the staff. Satisfied, they were herded back aboard the vertols, Kendra feeling well rested, and confident. There was just a twinge of nervousness inside and she looked around at the others. Some wore grins like Ash's and she wondered how many others had been trysting. She doubted any had had as athletic a time as she'd had.
They were quickly at altitude and Kendra was motioned to be first. Her stomach flopped, but she stepped forward. There was an interminable wait, then the ramp dropped, then there was more waiting as the landscape glided by. They were doing barely 150 kilometers, but it seemed faster. The jumpmaster walked casually out to the edge of the ramp and looked down while Kendra swallowed. He motioned her forward.
She stepped gingerly to the edge and stood there, buffeted by the slipstream as the instructor pointed down. "There's your target," he shouted over the roar. She could hear it live and in her headset in odd stereo.
She glanced down, nodding, not really seeing.
"No, lean over. Down there!" he repeated. She leaned, gripping the stanchion, and saw what might be a painted target. "Ready," he told her. She put her toes against the edge, waiting in the disconnected state she'd learned to associate with sensory or mental overload.
She heard a bellowed, "Go!"
Swallowing again, she dove off the edge and dropped, spread to catch the roaring wind. The air and gravity ripped at her, pulled her, tumbled her from headfirst to belly-down as she took a stiff "Arch!" while shouting instructions to remind and time herself. "Look!" she yelled and sighted her release handle near her right side. At "Reach!" she pulled her arms in toward her torso as she'd been taught and yanked the release while bellowing "Pull!"
It was supposed to be a five-second count. It had taken her barely one. But the gear worked as advertised and the canopy rippled and billowed over her. She checked it and could see other students deploying overhead. Adrenaline coursed through her and she whooped in delight. This was a rush.
The next trip was a ten-second delay from a faster craft, face-first in a rush toward the ground, rolling in the gale to a stable position. They did twenty seconds. They could go no further than thirty without oxygen and stopped there. Kendra would vividly remember that jump forever.
She leapt headfirst out the back, feet against her buttocks, arms extended to let the buffeting winds catch her. She flattened out in the sudden silence and heard the steadily increasing roar of the air past her ears. Occasional side-gusts caught her and there came a whuffing sound as she dropped through a wisp of cloud. Full gravity returned as she reached terminal velocity.
The world curved away from her in a vast panorama and she leaned sideways to turn for a full view. It was exhilarating and she grinned beneath her goggles. Remembering to check her altimeter, she was surprised to find it was only 185 meters and about five seconds into her flight. She had plenty of time. She turned back to the view.
She kept a steady eye on her altimeter. After a long time that was meditative and restful, she popped the canopy at five hundred meters as ordered. She found a rising thermal and managed extra hang time, in violation of regs. It should cost to have this much fun, she thought. She landed and reported in for dinner. They resumed afterward, doing a static jump and a free fall in darkness with night-vision gear.
The rest of the instruction block passed at a blur. They began jumping with gear and did more night jumps, into water, into thick woods with armor to prevent injury, then into mock urban settings. They practiced malfunctions, including releasing a "damaged" main and deploying the reserve. They used oxygen to go as high as seven thousand meters and practiced steering for their targets.
They were more than halfway through already. After Recruit Training, as busy as it had been, the breakneck pace here was staggering.
Up before Io again. Exercise, shooting range, classroom. They devoured the lecture and were driven to another training area. They jogged up stairs to the top of a one-hundred-meter training tower and donned harnesses.
Kendra snapped the rope through the links as taught and the instructor tugged it to inspect. "Okay," she said. "You can't fall as long as you grip the rope against your hip," she reiterated the lecture. "Try to hang on in front, you'll slip. Now, back to the edge." Kendra nodded, shuffled to the edge of the tower and leaned back. She felt fine so far.
She slipped one foot over, then the other, and gingerly edged down, feet against the building, slipping the rope through her fingers and snugging it against her hip. "Faster," she was ordered. "We don't have all day."
She quickened her pace, looking at the wall and not down and was quickly done. She was surprised at how easy it had been. She'd expected to be scared of the height. Free-fall training had put a stop to that.
She went up twice more for practice and prepared for the real training after lunch.
That was a different experience. She faced forward, standing at the edge. It looked like a long way down now. "Over you go," she was reminded.
She squatted and stepped over with her left, then her right. She stared straight down the tower to the packed ground below and paused. It was disorienting, and her hindbrain waited to plummet to her death. Gingerly, she stood out from the side, holding the rope taut in front of her. She stepped, then again, jerkily, shifting against the tower and hissing. Her adrenaline level was up again. If this continued, she'd be addicted to the stuff.
She continued jerking down the side. It was easier this way, once she was used to it. She could see where she was going and it was easier to control the rope. By evening, she was proficient and comfortable with the basics. They did one in darkness, then bedded down and rose early again.
They spent the day rappelling from vertols, finally leaping out the side and dropping fifty meters in five seconds using a friction lock to slow the descent at an increasing rate. They started in free fall down the rope, gravity building as they dropped and hitting the ground just hard enough to sting the feet a little. The friction heat could be felt right through the gloves.
By the end of it, she could drop, maneuver during descent, fire a weapon to clear a window and land inside it or hit a roof on the fly. She could reconnect to a trailing rope and lift, spreading to stay steady in the wind. She could drop from a moving craft, timing her descent to match the pendulum swing of the rope and land stationary at a selected position. They spent more effort on rappelling and roping than on any other task. Current doctrine held that this was the most useful technique for assault. It was a lot of fun to bounce across the landscape, once trained. Better than any amusement park ride she'd ever tried.
They spent what seemed now to be a very brief span on beach assault and additional land techniques. It was unlikely they'd ever be assaulting from water, but it was possible for a drop pod to land off-beacon. They practiced wading, swimming and using small boats. The two days were dawn to dusk affairs, but flew by quickly, although cold, wet and itchy. The last day of the block was spent frontally assaulting prepared positions. Kendra was reflective afterward. It finally hit her at gut level that she was learning to kill or be killed. A frontal assault would be suicide for most involved.
The final exercise was quick, brutally hard and messy. The students lined up at the beginning of the course, psyched and ready to graduate. From here, technical training for most, direct assignment to their new unit for others . . . and for some poor unfortunates, follow-up with Blazer training and perhaps Black Operations after that. Kendra shuddered to think about what could be worse than this.
She waited anxiously, a bit concerned about the test. She understood exactly what was involved, but the waiting was still unnerving. She approached the front of the line and killed time watching those ahead of her.
Her turn. "Pacelli, Kendra A." she recited to the evaluator.
"You ready, Private?" he asked her.
"Yes, Sergeant!" she replied. Hell, no!
"Go!"
She ran three steps and jumped into the trench, landing chest deep in frigid mud. Floating in it was assorted trash, refuse and rotten garbage. She held her breath and bent forward, slime rising over her face and into her ears and hair as she grasped the two sunken ammo cans left for her and grabbed the handles. As she stood, filth oozed down over her and into her clothes. She longed to wipe her face, but that would mean dropping one of the boxes, which would mean another dunking.
She waded forward, as close to a run as she could manage under the circumstances, feeling her boots squelching underneath as the mud forced its way in. The two cases, full of ammo and mud, were already heavy and dragged her arms behind her as she slogged onward.
She reached the end of the two-hundred-meter ditch exhausted, cold and aching. The handles had cut into her hands and she'd banged both shins, her knees and thighs with the sharp corners several times, front and back. She was only too happy to drop them. She wasn't happy with the high-pressure fire hose used to clean her off with even colder water, the spray blasting up her nose, into her mouth when she yelped and pouring liters of water into her clothes and down. The dousing added the burden of additional weight and she sprinted away as soon as she was clean. The hose chased her for a few seconds. Once out of range she coughed water out of her burning lungs and resumed at a slow pace.
There wasn't much point to the soaking, she thought, since she immediately had to dive face-first for cover in wet, limy sand that burned to the touch. The small arms fire blazing overhead was live, and while it was being held high enough to avoid injury, so she'd been told, it still made cracking sounds as it ripped by. She dragged herself along, cringing at the occasional low round. It actually was possible to flatten to half one's thickness, she decided, but the sand grains were a bit small for real concealment. She stretched her arms out again, scrabbled with her fingers, dug in her toes and crept under the first strands of razor wire.
She got snagged eventually and had to carefully snip the wire with her shears. The springy metal twanged along its length and bounced over, catching another trainee. He snapped, "Watch it, dickwad!" as an instructor poured a burst right over her head. Kendra flinched, and wasn't sure if the warm wetness she felt was lime and water or if she'd peed her pants. That had been close. Another bounding wire cut by someone else sliced across her hand. The sand rubbed in to create a fiery pain. She decided she could deal with it until she was clear, and crawled faster.
Once clear, it took her a few seconds to rinse the wound and spray sealer on it, then she ran for the target range. She found an open lane, punched her ID into the touchpad and unshouldered her weapon. She banged the grit from it, raised it and commenced fire at the pop-up targets. Once done, she slung it again and hit the track.
Unarmed combat test, and for evaluation, they meant unarmed. Someone could get killed from a clubbed rifle or shovel. The student was required to attack, and she took short steps toward her opponent. The man was smaller than she and her hunched posture caused him to misjudge her size. She straightened, raised her foot a full meter farther away than he expected, pivoted and kicked his ankle. He hopped back, changed stance and threw a fist toward her face. She rolled it aside with her right, circled her left hand down the other way to slow the parallel punch into her guts and tangled her left foot past his leading leg to kick the ankle she'd already abused. She grunted from the thump to her belly that he snuck in and breathed deeply and openmouthed as her diaphragm protested. Shoving his weight back onto the injured leg, she twisted her torso and he fell to his knees. She dropped her knee into the small of his back, stuck her extended left fingers into his throat and said, "Dead."
"Fine, get going," he said, clearly embarrassed by being taken down.
She stood and ran. Next was the cargo net, all thirty vertical meters of it. It no longer scared her, but her weapon tangled in the webbing and she was upside down by the time she unhooked it. She scrambled aright and finished the climb and descent.
There were twenty-two more obstacles, all sandy or muddy or wet or filthy or some combination of all of them. Her eyes were red and weeping from incapacitance gas before she was through, her lungs a frothy, syrupy burning mess. Once done with the ground test, she ran across a field-expedient airfac and boarded a vertol. As soon as it was full, the pilot lifted. They were taken to altitude and dropped, the target illuminated by laser and showing on their visors. Silently, they formed into squads and attacked a nearby position. From there, the orienteering course required precision navigation over short distances. Once graded on that, they boarded a shuttle.
Straight into orbit, they deployed in suits they donned en route and attacked a destroyer, cutting and blasting their way through the hull and seizing control. From there, they dropped in pods back into the combat sim for four more days of fun. It was raining again, and Kendra wondered if it was going to rain every time she went into the field. She was beyond exhausted from the level of activity and hadn't thought it possible to eat so much and not gain weight.
As Mobile Assault troops, she'd thought they'd see a higher complexity of battle. The local commanders, with absolute disregard for training, tossed them in anywhere they had shortages. It was a bit discouraging.
They cleaned up, slept and marched through another graduation, Rob and Marta in the stands, their own qualification badges proudly worn. She was dismissed, and went to spend the day with them. Ash had left, but said goodbye and kissed her and Mar as he departed. Then Rob had to make a contract appointment, leaving the two women alone. They went shopping, looking for exotic minerals and wood crafts, a love they shared. Kendra bought a green marble kitchen knife rack for Marta and had it shipped clandestinely. She had a bit of money now, which felt reassuring. She wasn't obsessed with the stuff, but it was impossible to live without, and a cushion let her sleep more easily.
Her hair had grown out to collar length, which made her less self-conscious in public. She also gradually became aware that she was totally unworried by any threat of crime. She knew she could instantly become a human chainsaw if attacked. She also no longer felt odd carrying a weapon. They were just tools to be used. It was a change in temperament she reflected on as they walked the cool, bright streets.
"One more stop," Marta insisted, and flew them a few kilometers to the outskirts of town. They stopped in front of a blocky building, thirty or so meters removed from its neighbors. A simple painted sign outside proclaimed Cardiff Cutlery. They went inside.
Rustic was perhaps the word. The back of the building, visible through an opening, was equipped with bay doors for loading equipment and material. Inside, it resembled an archaic smithy crossed with a machine shop. The front contained racks and displays of exotic cutlery. She'd never imagined so many varieties of edged weapons.
Mike Cardiff was about Marta's height, stripped to the waist and showing knotty biceps He had a short, graying beard and mustache and a shaven head. "Well! Marta!" he said brightly in a resonant voice that belonged to a man twice his size. He grinned evilly and reached out his grimy hands.
She was still in uniform and squealed, "Don't even think it! Or I'll never kiss you again."
He wiped his hands off and held them at his sides while she leaned to kiss him chastely. "Who's your friend?" he asked as he leaned back. "Is she taken?" He leered comically at Kendra.
"Yes, by me and Rob. Mike, Kendra Pacelli. Kendra, Mike Cardiff," she introduced. Kendra took his hands and shook. He gave her a glance from head to toe that boosted her ego. His thoughts were obvious.
"You ladies look at the hardware, I have to check on one in the oven," he said and walked into the back again.
Kendra stared at the work. It was amazing. Some of the blades had grains and patterns like burled wood. She'd heard of pattern-welded and Damascus steel, but had only seen one small piece of Rob's. This was incredible.
Looking to Marta for assent, she lifted one from the rack. It was a standard kataghan pattern, chisel pointed, slightly S-curved, with a grip of nuggetwood set with silver pins. One nearby she didn't recognize by shape had a handle of malachite. She whistled in respect.
Cardiff returned with clean hands, wiping them on a rag and asked, "Any questions?"
"Not yet, but I am impressed," Kendra said. Marta was scrutinizing a small knife.
"Your accent is familiar. You're from Earth?" he asked.
"Yes," she agreed. "Minneapolis."
"Oho! Do I have a piece for you!" he said, guiding her by her elbow to another rack. He drew the blade from its slot and handed it over. She took it from him, curious, and stopped suddenly. The balance was amazing. It floated in her hand, seemingly ready to swing in any direction she willed without physical effort. She raised it and marveled at the artistry of it.
It was a wakizashi, she recognized. The blade was about fifty centimeters, patterned with interlocking curls of the constituent metal writhing like a snake along the length of it, treated with some chemical to reveal it in shades of gold and tan. It seemed to have a depth, hypnotizing the eye into staring into it. The sides curved slightly into an edge so fine there was no glint of reflected light. Just back from the edge, there was what she knew was a temper line. It was wavy, crisp near the edge and clouding into nothingness toward the back. The guard was a circle of carved black iron with gold hammered into it in the shape of a rosebud. The hilt behind it was a golden-hued wood that was tiger-stripe grained and had a depth of its own that shifted with the angle of the light. The scabbard Cardiff held was carved of the same wood.
"What is that wood? I've never seen it before," she asked, stunned by its beauty.
"That's actually quilted maple from Earth, salvaged from an old piece of furniture. I forged the blade from two damaged pieces. One was an old family blade that was too trashed to reuse as was. The other was an absolutely archaic Damascus shotgun barrel, also worthless in the condition it was in. You'll see the weld pattern change from Persian twist to waterfall along the shinogi, which is this line here, where the bevel starts." He indicated the break and she could see a faint line where the two patterns met. "So all the materials are from Earth. The surface is treated with titanium nitride for the gold tones," he finished.
Kendra wanted it. No, she lusted after it. She didn't dare look at the price tag. This was an entirely handcrafted work of art. She nodded and thanked Cardiff, putting it back on the rack. She turned to see Marta buying a small dagger, the grain of the blade twisted back on itself, hilted in Grainne amber and silver.
"Not getting it?" Marta asked.
"I want to, but I don't dare spend the money," she admitted.
"You need a sword for formal wear," Mar chided.
"But—"
"And it should be distinctive," she added.
"But—"
"And you'll never see that one again. Mike's stuff is magic that way. You come in and wait for one to call to you," she insisted.
"Marta, sto—"
"And you just finished your training, which calls for a special gift to yourself," she reasonably pointed out.
"Dammit, I—"
"And you want it," she finished.
Cardiff brought the sword over again and held out the tag. Sighing, she took it and read it. It listed the materials, the date finished and gave the name of the piece as "The Warbride." Below that was the price. Cr3500. It was more than reasonable for the work involved, but she flinched anyway. Even with the bonuses she received for hazardous duty, that was almost two months' pay. But she did want it. And another one like it would never exist.
She hesitated a moment longer until Cardiff said, "If you're a friend of Marta's and just graduated, then let's say three even. And I owe Rob."
"Let me guess, he saved your life on Mtali," she said. It was becoming a running joke.
"Nooo! I'm a civilian, thank you very much," he protested. "I just make the hardware for them. But he's referred a lot of people and does research for me."
She sighed and handed over her card. He scanned it and let the machine transact while he wiped the blade with a cloth and gave her a hardsheet of instructions. "Thank you!" she said, thrilled.
They left and Marta begged to handle it once. Kendra relented. She loved watching the light coruscate from the surfaces. She said so.
"That's all?" Marta replied. "It makes me wet to look at it."
"Everything makes you wet, dear," Kendra replied, laughing.
"Sure does. You want to?" Mar asked, running fingers down her shoulder.
"Umm . . . after lunch, you could probably talk me into it," Kendra agreed.
They parked at a downtown ramp and walked to a café. The sword thrust through Kendra's sash drew as many stares as the two women themselves did. It was a good afternoon.