"Ringo,.John.-.Posleen.05.-.Cally's.War.-.Cochrane,.Julie" - читать интересную книгу автора (Ringo John)

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.


Chapter Two
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 juniorЧwith 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?"
"Nothing near as interesting as killing Posleen." She grinned and held up a perfect hand, "I'm a manicurist. Nails and sympathy, that's me."
"And gossip?"
"Maybe just a teensy bit." She laughed, wrinkling her nose at him.
"So . . . um . . . did you grow up in Charleston? I guess in the old days you could tell by the accent, but . . ."
"No, I grew up in the Cairo Urb. But I liked the sun," she gestured to her tan and shrugged, "and I love the beach, so here I am."
"Ah, a genuine beach bunny. Not many of those around anymore." His hand was gentle as he took hers. "Just an old-fashioned girl, huh?"
"Well, a bit," she admitted, squeezing his hand and licking her lips slightly. "Oh, hey, I love this song."
He listened with her until the end of "The Holy Ground," signaling the bartender for another beer.
"So, you like Irish music?" he asked.
"Yeah, some. I'm more a fan of prewar dance mixes. I'm not a sitting still type, you know?" She pulled a pack of Marlboros out of her purse and started to light one, but paused when he winced. "Oh, I'm sorry. Does the smoke bother you?" The bar was heavy with the usual cloud of tobacco smoke, so she raised an eyebrow at him curiously.
"Only that you'd do that to yourself. My Gran died last week. Lung cancer. She cut way back during and after the war, when tobacco was scarce, but I guess it wasn't enough." He frowned, "I'm sorry to be a downer, I just . . . it's still fresh, I guess."
"Well, it's not like they're addictive anymore, but I'm sorry I brought your mind back to sad stuff." She shoved the pack back in her purse and laid a soft hand on his arm. "You know what you need? To get your mind right off it. Decos is just down the street." She waved at the stage. "This stuff is too much when you're already down. Dance it out of your system. That's what I always do when it gets really bad. Let's get out of here."
"Sure." He shook himself very slightly and nodded to his friends as they left.
Two hours later a light sheen of sweat dried on her skin in the salt air as she rode behind him on his bike to one of the hotels that catered to tourists from the heartland. When he pulled into the parking lot and stopped, she let go of his waist and climbed off slowly, reluctant to relinquish his warmth.
"This has got to be hell on your uniforms," she said, gesturing at the bike.
"Well, yeah. I pretty much keep it garaged except on weekends. But yeah, I do go through uniforms a bit." He sighed, "I really hate to ask but would you mind waiting with the bike while I get us a room? I don't know if they'd be weird about it if you were with me."
They couldn't care less, but I don't want to admit I know that. "Oh, sure. The moon's nice tonight, and it's warm. I'll just watch it and enjoy the fresh air till you get back."
"Um . . . be back in just a minute." He straightened himself and walked towards the doors to the lobby with a slightly exaggerated assuredness.
They were within a couple of blocks of the Wall, and as she stood in the parking lot she could see it behind a couple of vacant lots and low businesses, cutting the skyline between apartment buildings. She supposed if she was home more she wouldn't smell the salt as much, but tonight it was strong on the air and she watched the few stars visible through the haze above the still fronds of the palmettos.
* * *
When he walked back out with the key, she was leaning back against his bike with her eyes closed, face turned up to the sky.
"You're not going to sleep on me, I hope," he teased.
She shook her head and swallowed something, probably gum, because her mouth was fresh and sweet when he drew her up against him and kissed her, softly at first, but responding enthusiastically when she deepened the kiss.
"Um . . . let's go inside," he said when they came up for air, looking around the parking lot a trifle self-consciously before taking her hand and leading her up the stairs to the second-floor room.
Inside the door, she moved into his arms and slid her hands up his chest. He cupped her butt with one hand and tangled the other in that beautiful, silky blond hair. She was so slim it felt like he might break her if he hugged too hard.
She caught his jaw in her hands and kissed him hungrily as she backed towards the bed, playfully letting go and allowing herself to fall backwards with a big grin as soon as the backs of her legs met the edge.
"Come into my parlor, said the spider to the fly. . . ." She undid the top button of her pedal pushers and blew him a kiss.
He laughed and lay down beside her, playing with the cleft between her breasts made accessible by the vee of her blouse.
"Is that from something?" he asked, leaning down and kissed her temple. "Never mind." He trailed his lips back down to her mouth to be devoured again.
She pulled back and caught his eyes as she pulled her shirt off and dropped it over the side of the bed, followed by her bra, then traced a finger down the front of his whites.
"Does that come off?" She licked her lips softly, tilting her head to the side and watching him watch her.
"Pamela, you're beautiful. Here." He unfastened his jacket, grimacing a little at the dingy grayish-white undershirt and suspenders underneath and getting them out of the way as fast as possible.
"Mmmm. Nice. . . ." She pressed herself up against him and buried her face in his shoulder, inhaling deeply before planting a row of tasting kisses along his collarbone.
He groaned and pressed both hands flat against her back, burying his face in her hair and inhaling the clean freshness of it. "Pamela," he breathed as he brought one hand around to cup her breast. He couldn't resist kneading it, it was so warm, and soft, and round. Perfect. He suddenly needed to get their pants off and shuddered slightly. It would be so easy to go too fast. How could he not go too fast. She was silken and warm and fresh and moving against him and he suddenly needed her desperately.