[75—USCG Helios]

The Lieutenant let me stay on until April first, by which time my Troop had graduated anyway.  She explained that Central Casting, as she called the Orders & Assignments Office, didn't care so much about when orders were carried out, as long as it eventually happened.  We weren't the Army, after all.

We spent the last week setting up the camp just so, so that the next Troop, probably 423, could come in, spend one night here, and move it all to another location. 

By that time, I was happy to climb aboard the US Coast Guard Cutter Helios, the airship permanently on loan to the Peace Corps.

It was a fifteen hundred mile flight to Guatemala, with one stop about halfway in Jamaica.  Each leg was twelve-and-a-half-hours long.

Chibani was coming with me, and Jared, and all three of the Spiner sisters.  There were a few others from the Troop, but none from my squad.  I saw Christy Forbes while I was boarding.

I could tell it was gonna be a fun ride.

***

A twelve-and-a-half hour flight is too long by at least eleven hours.  It was a good thing we didn't have to stay in our seats the whole time, or I'd have gone mad.

They started us out in the rear gallery, which is very much like an airliner, with rows of uncomfy seats, but with my favorite detractor on board, I decided to stay out of harm's way. 

Helios was enormous, many times larger than the Mickey Mouse.  The gondolas weren't particularly large, but envelope was at least two-hundred-and-fifty feet long and probably fifty in girth.  The Ophiuchus was the only thing I'd ever seen bigger, personal and up-close. 

It was disconcerting, looking at our shadow as the ground slowly receded; my mind couldn't handle something that large hanging over my head.  The people shrunk to ant-sized, standing around their Match-box bus and ambulance, and still our shadow covered the whole scene.

I decided to leave the gallery and go exploring.

Aft, there were two cabins, and a ladder going up to the gas bags, and down to the hold.  Beyond that, there was a small dining room in the back, with an arched rear wall with floor to ceiling windows.  White cloths and formal-ware set the tables, but it was all abandoned right now.

I went forward, into the fore gallery.  It was much wider up here, with an aisle about eight feet wide with a six-by-ten cargo elevator in the floor and rows of seats, like in the after gallery.

Forward that, there was a bulkhead and a short hallway.  There were unisex heads on either side and a galley and sick bay.  There was another ladder, going both directions, and a door behind it, that lead to the cockpit.

I went down the ladder and found myself in an identical hallway, except that there was only one door, leading forward to the gun room.

That sounded intriguing.

I knocked.

"Come," a metallic twangy voice said, "if you dare."

I tried the handle and found it unlocked.

Inside there was a cramped room, not irregular, but shaped like a pentagon with two curving walls that met at the prow of the ship.  Both of those walls were crammed with equipment, arranged on two levels.  It was all very complicated looking.

"Watch your step," a little man said.  He looked like someone out of Wonderland.  He was short, even shorter than me, but stocky too.  I wouldn't quite call him a dwarf, but he was shrunken along the 'tall' axis.

He wore a damp summer dress uniform, which is white, shorts and short-sleeved, but his cap looked entirely too big.  I looked him over.

He was a Lieutenant, and had been for more than two years, and some sort of engineer.  He had a badge with an airship on it, and two quite impressive rows of medals. 

His name was Vanderbilt, and he was maybe thirty-two, and Caucasian, with broad cheeks and pale skin with freckles.  His hair was brown and limp and, like his uniform, had surrendered its structure to the unbearable humidity.

The floor was lower in here; I climbed down a little metal ladder to get to it.

"Can I help you," he asked.

"I'm Dani..."I offered my hand but he stood there, oblivious of it.  "Third Class Heywood."

"Can I help you," he repeated, but turned back to his bank of screens and dials, and creepy glowing eyeballs.

"Why does the sign say gunroom?"

"Now there's a question."

"Yes," I assured him.  "Yes, it was."

I waited for a few seconds.

"But you didn't answer it."

"Gimme a sec," he said and flipped a few switches with his left hand while keying a microphone with his right.  "Transferring ballast...done."

He turned back to me.

"This used to be the gunroom."

"Why would a paratroop ship have a gunroom."

"More tradition than anything else.  But it did house a turret gun.  Under the steps."

I looked behind me and could see that the stairs formed a hatch to a dark space beneath.

"Not there anymore; they took the whole turret, but it'd be a great place to put a telescope."

"Why," I asked him.  "It would point away from the sky."

"For looking out below.  And keeping an eye on the other guy."  He reached out and patted a spar to which his bench was anchored.  "She used to be a warship, once.  Just like the original."

"Original?"

"Yes, this is the third Coast Guard Cutter with the name Helios.  She was launched in 1956, but she probably doesn't look like any airship you've seen, am I right?"

"Yes, now that you mention it, but I couldn't say why."

"Good eye, there.  She started life as the Argentine Air Force's Gallo, but was sold into scrap in 1966, mostly because of budget cuts. 

"But she wasn't destroyed.  Instead, some cartel refit her for smuggling operations.  You'd be surprised how few people notice something this big.

"She was taken a prize in 1968, in US airspace.  She was sold at the blocks, and the Coast Guard bought her."

The floor shifted again, but he rolled with it.  I had to grab onto the hatch to keep my footing.

"But she's different; her beauty was her downfall.  See, the Army, Air Force, and Navy all standardized their designs even before the Great War, so anything built in the US after 1925 or so doesn't fit into the supply net developed to support military dirigibles and consequently fleet operations. 

"So, they loaned her to us, since we only occasionally use her and the impact on the supply chain in negligible.  Staying in the Latin world, it won't be a problem to find fuel and spares."

I tried to imagine the size of an illegal operation needing a platoon carrier, but failed.  What could they possibly use it for?

"So what do you do in here?"

"Keep an eye on all the vital signs.  I'm the Flight Engineer.  All this is my domain." 

And all the psychoses too? 

"All the cabin crew are Coast Guard, but the rest of us are Peace Corps.  I'm also the senior PC officer present."

A red light began to flash and then another.  He turned, just as the airship banked and spilled himself ass-over-teakettle into the starboard hull.

Did he just roll uphill?

Against all reason, he was up from his boneless fall and had already started making adjustments to a miniature TV tube displaying a waveform.  He pushed a round black button with his other hand and then flipped some of a row of toggle switches that ended in a big blade switch. 

His concentration was still on the scope; his right hand seemed to have a mind of its own.

"Maybe I should be going," I said, opening the door.

"No don't," he said, and pulled the switch.  There was a flash and an audible pop.

The lights went out, first in the gunroom, and then the hall and cargo hold.  A dark hatchway above, and groans from the other passengers told me something was amiss up there too.

"Sorry," he said and I heard him fumbling around.  "I get so few visitors down here; I'll have this on in a jiffy."

I heard someone coming down the gangway and saw a light.

"Ga-a-ang whye."

A youngish woman in her twenties slid down the ladder and came through the door.  She was wearing dungarees and a headlamp.  I couldn't see her nametag.

"Ah Polly," the Lieutenant said to her.  "My savior.  Shine your light on Circuit Breaker Panel B."

"Now which one is that?"

She had the drawl and slow-paced 'I ain't in no hurry' speech from the Gulf Coast, but not so far west as New Orleans, nor so far east as Pensacola.

She kinda himmed-and-hawed, with her hands in her pockets like she was square-dancing by herself.  Finally, she focused her head-lamp—possibly the only bright thing ever to radiate from her head—to the spot were Ltn. Vanderbilt had been pointing at, gesturing to, and was now giving her colorful verbal instructions about how to find.

"Good," he said and gave her a thumbs up.  "Now keep it there."

He took a tool from his impressive Bat-belt and quickly had the panel off. 

Our friend Polly may have the loose gate required to walk about on an airship, but she couldn't hold her light steady worth a damn.

"Gimme that," I said, snatching it from her head. 

I fiddled with the focus, shining a light on an interesting fact:  Polly's last name was Killdare, as attested to by a nametag over the pocket on her left ass cheek.

Dungareees are designed to fit only accidentally, but she had gotten that fit only with tailoring.  Hers had probably been taken in across the hips, giving a snug cut that suggested at a posterior that most men, and no few women, would find irresistible.

I held the lamp like a flashlight and kept it on Ltn. Vanderbilt's work.   He banged around for a bit and began changing out some part, cursing under his breath the entire time.

Another person appeared at the door with a big metal flashlight.

"How long till you get the lights fixed," A man's voice asked.

"It will be done when it's done, which is about three more minutes, plus an additional two every time you interrupt me."

"What'm I s'posed to tell the Cap'n?"

"Tell him five minutes," Vanderbilt said, his voice the very model of irritation. 

"By the time you get back," he added under his breath, "I'll be two minutes done." 

In a louder voice, he said "now off you go."

The man worked his way slowly up the ladder and the Lieutenant went back to work.  Within the minute he flipped the switch again and the lights came back on.

[CONTINUED]

[74—Our Loss]

We were too late getting back, but I didn't know that for a while.  It wasn't until Friday of Week Nine that we knew anything, when Captain Willy came on station.  All of the staff members were informed of the facts in an officious but melancholy meeting.

On Saturday, she delivered a eulogy at morning muster.

"Today, we have lost our comrade," she read from a prepared speech. 

Still, I cried.  I knew her.

"Today, we mourn for her.

"As a woman, I grieve every time one of our own is taken so young.  I can only hope and pray that her family finds solace somehow, that they find something to fill the gap left by her untimely passing.  May whatever Gods exist grant them this peace."

"Amen," the crowd murmured, then a silence fell.

"Julia Anders Lunch, born July 7, 1951 in Boulder, Colorado—daughter, sister, and activist.  I am proud to have served with her."

The silence fell again.

"Does anyone wish to say a few words?"

"I do," I found myself saying.  I was beckoned out front.

"I knew July, not Julia, but I know much more than where she was born or what year she graduated high school.  She wasn't just a comrade.  She was my friend, my leader, my role model. 

"She was fun, and full of life.  She was from Colorado, but she was of the whole world.  She never belonged to us; she showed us her best side, then something took her away."

I stopped to dry my tears.

"That something wasn't God, or a god, or the Devil.  It was cervical cancer.  She was twenty-six years old.

"I don't know why this happens, but I know it must stop.  I don't care who, or what, it offends.  Women should not die like this, and for no reason."

I was mad now, not just saddened.  Too often I'd heard 'God's will' bandied about as the cure to grief.  I just couldn't stand to hear it one more time.  I looked into the sky and raised a fist.

"So I have something to say:

"Yahweh, or Allah, or whoever is up there—you'd better stop taking my friends, or I'm coming after you.  Don't make me come up there again!"

That last comment was meant to be supercilious, but it had the opposite effect.  All of the women, and no few of the men, were crying, even the Captain.

"That is," she said in my ear as she leant forward and embraced me, "exactly why you are here today, in her shoes."

I didn't want to be reminded that I was wearing July's squad leader badge on my collar, nor of Chantré, who was probably going to recover from the hepatitis she contracted, but she wasn't coming back to the Island. 

"Temporary Third Class Heywood is correct," she said aloud to the assembled Troop, "and as always, melifluous.  It is my honor to award her the Permanent Rank of Translator Third Class."

She handed me a pair of blue diamonds, slightly larger than the red ones I already wore. 

I took them, not sure what to do next.  There were cheers, and congratulations, and the crowd faded like the morning dew.

"Congratulations Heywood," the Captain offered after the Troop had been dismissed.

"You will be leaving soon.  The Hexagon has authorized your early completion of basic training.  It's time to get you in the field."

I was shocked.

"But what if I want to stay here?  My squad needs me."

"Not unless you stay on as an instructor, which I'm disinclined to approve.  We are bringing in someone else, somebody new.  It's better this way."

"But I'm not done.  I still have things to learn."

"We all have things to learn," she said, placing a matronly hand on my shoulder.  "And learn them you will; you'll be taking your own Camp Winsome with you."

[73—Bivouac]

Week six was all bivouac, which meant we were out hiking and camping the whole time. They'd brought us supplies mid-week, and the mail, but that was it.

Robbie had sent me a tape, separate from the weekly one, but I hadn't played it.  I was running low on juice.

I was acting squad leader, with two people on sick call and no medic—July Lunch and Chantré were both down with stomach cramps.  This was a new development, only starting this morning, and I hoped it wasn't anything serious.  I had Spacey Berkowitz, from July's team, possibly the quietest person in our squad tending them.  She seemed to know her way around a sick person.

"You'd better come see," she said, looking at her toes.  She wasn't exactly the boisterous type; I'd scarcely heard her talk at all.

Everyone on her team seemed to have some kind of problem, above and beyond just being a freak.

There was Reyla—Keyla and Geyla's fundamentalist sister—who was still, amazingly, with us.  I was very surprised at that.  She wasn't much trouble, per se, but July kept a tight leash on her, I suspect, to keep her out of the rest of the Troop's hair.

Then there was Jemmi, the girl who'd gotten into my face the very first day at Camp Winsome.  There was something very wrong with her, but none of us knew what it was.  She acted like a psycho sometimes and was as sweet as molasses at others.  I didn't get it.

And then there was Kwame, our Nigerian immigrant, about whom I knew little, except that he was gayer than fairy-pink and would sleep with just about anybody male.  He'd had sex with three men in our squad that I knew of, and who knows how many others.  I think he'd been cruising the Airbase on Sundays.  I could only hope he was using the condoms we handed out so frequently.

Week five had familiarized us with archery, and the fundamentals of hunting.  I wasn't any good, but Chibani was a natural.  He'd grown up with the bow and arrow.

He was out now, with our newbie, a guy named Ricky Houck who came over to us from Second Squad, also known as the Cracker Barrel, on account of how dry and white its denizens were.  He'd just come out and was reveling in the freedom of his choice.  I thought him and Chibani might be fooling around.  If so, I wished them luck and lots of prophylaxis.

I also wished them the fortitude to continue their task, which was to keep the sounder of Boonie pigs that had been following our camp at bay.  They might not be as dangerous as true wild boar, but these mudsuckers had great-big tusks and though smaller than their wilder cousins, were not very afraid of humans.

It was a lot harder keeping up with fifteen instead of four.

I kept the teams close, all in one campsite, to ease the logistics and make security easier.  I'd not been much worried about it except two things:  the pigs, and the fact that a Park Ranger had been shot at by poachers last week.  He was fine, but they started a massive hunt for the offenders; it was still going on.

Some of us (not me) had complained that it was dangerous, but the Lieutenant told us it was the least of our worries.  In Central and South America, where most of us were going, it would be a lot worse.

So I'd taken two bows with us, as well as our ubiquitous machetes, and Chibani had showed us how to make fire-hardened spears from saplings.  He made sure each one had a forking limb somewhere along the haft, to keep a charging pig from running up it and hurting you.

We kept them handy, in case they decided to run through the camp again.

We went over to the Medical tent, really just one of our domes confiscated for this purpose, and checked up on our sick.

"How are they," I asked Spacey.

"Chantré is pretty out of it—fever, vomiting, and diarrhea, I'm giving her lots of fresh water, but we are running low.  Lunch is better, she's coherent now, and wants to talk to you.  I don't think they have the same thing."

"Good, then it's probably not contagious."

"Maybe," she said and lit up a cigarette, "but we should be cautious."

I hadn't seen anybody smoke like her since Dr. Epstein—like it was a sacrament.  The hospital, and all the events that made my life what is was now, were a distant memory.  Was it possible that was only four months ago?

"Can we move them?  I'd like to get back early.  That fever is worrying me.  Do you have any idea how high it is?"

"No, I don't have a thermometer, but it's above 102°, I think."

"Then we definitely need to move them, if we can."

"Heywood," Lunch called from within.  I went to her.

"What is it?"

"Get Chantré back to camp.  You can leave me here with the others, but she needs a doctor.  I'm afraid it's appendicitis.  She has to go."

"We'll break camp when everybody gets back.  We should be back to Winsome by noon."

"Win some, lose some," she said wistfully and then looked at me.  "Chantré was mumbling 'fuck Cracker Barrel' all night last night.  Why do you think that is?"

"I don't know.  There's a restaurant chain called that in the South.  We have them in Missouri.  They're pretty hateful to gays.  Perhaps she had a bad experience, or got turned down for a job."

"Don't know.  I just hope she don't get athwartships with Houck.  That's what they call his squad's tent."

"I'm not worried about it.  But I am worried about both of you."

"I'm fine.  Just having an exceptionally bad period."

"But you haven't been using tampons."

"How do you know?"

"I'm the boss while you're broken; I know everything.  What gives?"

"Just a little spotting."  She tried to sit up but couldn't.  "And a smidge of pain."

"Girl, you turned fishbelly white just now.  I thought you were going to pass out."

"So did I."

"Then you're definitely not ambulatory.  We can rig some litters with spears.  We can use tarps and have plenty of rope.  I'll have three teams of porters, and we can swap to make better time.  I think that's important."

"Listen," she coughed, "do this.  Take one team with you and book it back to base camp, and leave the other two under Jared back here with the camp to pack it up and hump it in at a slower pace. 

"With all the extra gear, you're taking a big risk with them, especially if we don't have enough fresh water.  But we can't abandon our gear in the Park."

"No," I told her.  "I'm not going to split us up.  Their load will be even greater if we leave the whole thing for eight men...people. 

"I'm going to pull up stakes and head out, just as soon as we can.  I've got your flare pistol, so I can call in the cavalry if we go bust."

***

Chibani got in ten minutes later, carrying two Guinea Fowl by their feet.

"I wish you'd have not taken them," I told him.  "Not that I'm scorning your hunting prowess, but we have to get going."

He thumped his chest. 

"Great Red Hunter, innit?"

We broke camp quickly, and headed out in good order.  Chibani insisted on cutting new poles for the litters; he wanted somebody on each of the spears, plus an archer at each end of the line in case of Boonie pigs.

We marched toward the camp, but it was rough going.  Lunch had been right, with the extra load, and without enough water, we were quickly exhausted.  Switching out didn't help, because nobody really got to rest. 

We finally stopped along a ridge, within sight of the camp. 

"How's she doing," I asked Spacey.

"She's bad, boss.  Her fever's even higher, 104°, I'd say.  If it's her appendix, I'm afraid for her.  It may have already burst.  She had a spasm and a delirious episode a while back."

"What about Lunch?"

"Quiet as a mouse.  She's got me just as worried.  She wouldn't drink the last time we stopped; I think she's trying to tough it out."

"Wouldn't surprise me.  She's a tough old bat."

She wasn't very old, mid-, late-twenties, tops.

"I'm going to send two runners to camp.  Who do you think the fastest is?"

"Chantré," she said without hesitation.

"Who else?  She's not in much of a state to run right now."

"I'd sent Myki and Kwame.  Them boys is faster than a pickup-truck full of homophobic rednecks, unless I miss my guess."

"Okay, but I think I'll shoot off my flare, too.  Time is precious."

***

In the end, they brought the helicopter to us.  Doc Martinez took one look at them and was on the radio to Rand.  They were in pretty bad shape.  I tried to keep track of them, but couldn't.  The only thing I knew for a while was that they were flown off the island by nightfall.

I listened to Robbie's tape after I got in.

Hi Dani, it's me.  Robbie.  I UNDERSTAND THAT YOU DONT HAVE TIME FOR ME, BUT I WISH YOU DID.  I MISS YOU, AND YOU DID PROMISE.

TOPHER HAS BEEN FUN. WERE MAKING A PIRATE SHIP OUT OF POPSICLE STICKS.  HE MISSES YOU TOO.  SOMETIMES HE HUGS YOUR PILLOW AND CRIES.  I THINK HE LOVES YOU.

I WROTE YOU SOME PROGRAMS ON MY NACK, BUT HAD TO HAVE DADDY HELP ME CONVERT THEM TO WORK ON YOUR GRIP.

ONE IS A PROGRAM TO DRAW ON YOUR SCREEN, USING THE KEYBOARD.  ANOTHER IS A CLOCK, COUNTER, AND ALARM.  I KNOW YOU HAVE A WATCH, BUT THIS ONE IS COOL.  YOU CAN SET THE TIMEZONE AND KEEP TRACK OF THE TIME IN FOUR PLACES AT ONCE.  I WROTE IT FOR YOU SO YOU CAN KEEP TRACK OF US ALL.

NONE OF THEM HAVE BEEN TRIED OUT ON YOUR GRIP.  ITS DIFFERENT FROM DADDYS. 

I ALSO WROTE YOU A STORY, BUT YOU MIGHT NOT LIKE IT.  ITS NOT EXCITING LIKE YOUR LIFE IS.  ITS ABOUT A SPACE HERO'S kid BROTHER, WHO HAS TO STAY HOME AND KEEP HIS ROOM CLEAN, AND EAT HIS VEGETABLES, SO HIS PARENTS WONT BE MAD AT HIM.  Someday, he will be a hero too but not a regular hero, a superhero.  then it will be more exciting, but still probably not as exiciting as yours.

THATS IT, I HAVE TO GO.  I HOPE YOU LIKE THE PROGRAMS, AND THE PICTURES I DREW USING IT.  THEY ARE OF YOU AND TOPHER AND GINA AND SONJIN, ALL TOGETHER IN SPACE.

BYE,

ROBBIE.

How couldn't I cry?  I was already doleful over July and Chantré; this was too much.

But I deserved those slings and arrows; I had promised to write him more often, and I'd just been too busy. 

I resolved to write a little every day. 

[72—Willy]

Nothing good ever happens on a Saturday, not in the Peace Corps.  That's when Repple Depple comes to town and makes your life miserable.

Friday, a helicopter came in from Rand and brought some medium-high wigs.  Big wigs might exist in the Corps, but they didn't wear uniforms.

This one was a REMF if there ever was one, from the scrambled eggs on the visor if his cap, to the fruit salad on his chest, and even the white shorts and patent leather shoe combo with the long white socks.

I don't think he knew what sun and burn meant together.  Oh well, he certainly wouldn't stay long enough to find out.

The scrambled eggs meant he was at least a colonel, or captain, in the Corps.  Since captain was the highest rank we had, it meant a mighty short list of suspects as to his ID.

Logic suggested it was Captain Willy Arbuckle, meanest sum-bitch in the Corps and Commandant of Camp Winsome.

He arrived with a staff, a Lieutenant and a passel of cadets or some such.  They went immediately to the CQ.  I didn't see them again until the next day, at morning formation.

***

I don't know what pomp and circumstance passes for formations in the military, but in the Peace Corps, it was usually short on ceremony.  They played the bugle and called muster.  Anything else was a bonus and done seat-of-the-pants as circumstances permitted.

This morning it was spit and polish.  Or at least spit.  The Lieutenant came to us the night before and said Odd-squad had better look good at Saturday formation or there would be vicious, excruciating, and completely forbidden retribution to any of us who made her look the fool before her C.O.

The bugle called out reveille and we fell in to neat rows and columns, about six by eight.

I was at the head of one column, on the end and to the right of our Squad leader.  I wondered what the brass was here for.

"I bet you're wondering what I'm doing here," Arbuckle pronounced, as if by saying it, we must be wondering that very thing.  He was carrying a swagger stick.  It occurred to me if you changed his white cotton to black vinyl, he'd look like a gay biker.

"It is the duty of the superior officer to notice every fault, and see every meritorious deed.  No fault should go uncorrected and no good-deed unsung."

Uh-oh.  Somebody's in for it.

"I have received a request, a notice really, that one of our own has gone literally above and beyond the call of duty."

I wish people would learn what literally meant.

"One of our own, in this very troop, Troop 420."

Somebody whispered into his ear.

"Troop 421."

He took out scroll and unrolled it.  Somebody was about to get noticed.

Oh, you brown-nosing schmuck.  I truly feel for you, you poor bastard.

"Be it known to all that Danielle Lynn Heywood,

did fly in orbit and earn hits

Astronaut Badge (Spacewalk), Crew Class, Silver

for hits contributions to the Commandant of Ophiuchus Space Station in her special investigations pursuant to her duties thereto pertaining. 

Done this 26^th Day of January,

 1977 anno domini

Fuck!  They were talking about me.  Astronaut wings?  What the Hell?

They came over to me.  It was inevitable, like the dream where you're being chased by zombies or monsters or something and you can't move your feet.

I thought I was going to throw up. 

As Arbuckle came closer, I became more convinced he was a she in drag.

By the time she stopped in front of me, it was obvious she was just a severe-looking woman who looked unfortunately like an even older man.

She was plum scary.

She was at least five ten and had such a sharp image you could shave with it and in it.  She had more medals than a pawn shop.

She waited while one aid handed her the award and another reached right into my shirt and took the frogs off my 421 button.

The Captain stepped forward and put her left hand where her aide had just been groping, and stuck the medal to my chest with the other.  She put the frogs in place with practiced ease and stepped back, rendering a sharp salute.

What the hell was I supposed to do?

I saluted her back.

Then they were off, serving up a bronze medal to one of the other Squad leaders and a ribbon to a corpsman serving in the hospital.

After that they disappeared.

I looked her up later.  Her name is Wilhelmina Arbuckle, and she's the most decorated officer in the Peace Corps.  One report said she'd been shot six times, on three different occasions.

***

Just about everyone in my squad thought it was cool, me having my wings.  It was a simple silver pin, oval with a little ankh-headed star-man carved into its face.  There was a single wing on the right side. 

The thing I liked most about it was that I didn't have to wear the 421 pin anymore.  Not that I had anything against my Troop, I just thought the way they handled the 420 thing was a little heavy-handed. 

Besides, I've always liked being beyond the bounds of normal.

But some people in other squads were not so pleased.  Noneso less than Christy Forbes, assistant squad leader under First Class Tobey Sanchez, of la Chimenea, the straight-girl squad. 

Sanchez was alright.  She and I were the only two people in the Troop fluent in Spanish.  I knew textbook Spanish better, but she was from the barrio.  We got along well enough teaching.  Besides our students, we also had to wrangle the English speaking locals who volunteered to help us teach Spanish to our Troop.

But Forbes hated me.  I wasn't sure why, but it started almost as soon as I got there.  What ill will she harbored for me, or its cause, I never found out but she couldn't be in the same room without glaring at me.

That day, she just pissed me off.

We were in the mess tent, enjoying a rare glimpse of civilization—those little cups of ice-cream with paper lids and wooden spoons.

Forbes watched me pass and said to her friend just as I walked by "I wonder who she had to blow to get that?"

I stopped.

"Don't worry," I said over my shoulder, "you'll get your chance.  You'll probably get both wings and the star."

I wasn't under any illusions; she was two inches taller than me and outweighed me by at least twenty pounds.  In a fair fight, she'd thrash me.

But I'd been toughening up lately, and I'd already put on twelve pounds, almost all of it muscle.  I could do a lot of things I couldn't last month.

I also knew one thing she didn't.

"What did you say," she asked, stepping up to me like she meant something.  She added "bitch" in a low tone as she stopped right in front of me.

I turned my front foot inward and shifted my weight onto the back.

"I said," I repeated in a low voice that only she could hear, "that you could suck-start a Harley-Davidson."

She grimaced and threw a punch at me, ill formed as it was, but I was expecting it.  I shifted my weight and spun out of her way.  Her blow went right past me, and she punched the Lieutenant square in the back of the head.

I kneed her in the crotch as she went by, but I doubt anyone else saw it.

I straightened up and kept on walking like nothing happened, still eating my ice-cream.

[71—Family Time]

Week four was just like week three, except maybe a bit less exciting. 

I lounged about on Sunday morning, not sure whether I should cancel my final SCUBA dives. 

As busy as I'd been that month, I felt like I should do more with my off time than sleep or just hang out, a new skill I was learning with much gusto.

The trick is to do nothing.  It felt wonderful.

The Lunchbox was getting a bit ripe, so rather than clean it, we decided to go into the woods.

I brought along my Grip for music.

At evening muster, sometime in the previous week, the members of 'Troop 420' were taken off and talked to about their unauthorized insignia.  Since then, we had lots of visitors from other squads.

The camp was thick with party commandos—the kind of people who show up to a party asking for favors, with nothing to give—and we had to find innovative ways to dump the ones we didn't like.

I can't say I was much of a partier, but I found I liked hanging with my Odd-fellows.

But we rarely went into the woods without Geyla and Keyla, Chantré, Chibani, at least one other person from Jared's team, and July Lunch.

We walked a tree house that someone had found.  It was well disguised, and gave a commanding view of the terrain.

We shinnied up inside, hauling our ubiquitous supplies up by rope.  I didn't even go to the latrine without an emerg-kit anymore.

The place was abandoned; we checked it for structural stability.

Check.

We spread out our ponchos, soft side up, and immediately three joints were sparked up.

"What'll it be," I asked, looking through my cassettes.  "Doobie brothers and Jackson Browne?"

"Doobies," Geyla yelled and took a hit from two joints at once. 

I popped it and we sat back for a long while, listening to Rock and Roll and degenerating.

When I'd played all my music, I retired to my own corner of the tree house and popped in the tape I'd gotten at mail call.

I'd heard nary a word since Gina's call last week.  I kept expecting another call, but it never came.

I guess I'd hear one way or the other now.

The first message was from Gina.

Dani, it's me, your sis. 

I don't know how, but I managed to talk mother into letting me go.  You were right about giving her an ultimatum, though I was very nervous for a minute after I laid out her choices.

I'm sewing new costumes, of course; I hope we can get it on film, but a good series of stills could enhance our careers greatly if shown in the right venues.

I had to flip a coin with Tammy to see who got to go first.  We both have HUGE news for you.

I will let you get to it, love you Dani.  Thanks for everything.

Wow, what could be as big as going to space?  Tammy's birthday had been last Tuesday, and she was eighteen now.  I wonder if she'd gotten her license yet.

Hey Dani, you know what lesbians do on a third date?

—Tammy

<PRESS ENTER>

One of the cool things about the Grip, and the Nack as well, is that you could set a tape to go directly from text to music, to pictures (if you have the screen), play music, all with special codes that are easy to work with.

I pressed enter.

A picture built up, slowly, of a tiny kitten, held in two pairs of hands, one black, one white.  The white pair was obviously Tammy's.

I've never had a real cat, so I don't know much about them.  This one was so young, she looked malformed.  I knew it was a girl because it was tortoiseshell, but the colors on the image were not good.  I could see she had white tufts on her toes and chin. 

She was precious beyond words.

Adopt a kitten.

Isn't that funny?

I'd never heard Tammy tell lesbian jokes before.  Mary Jane must be rubbing off on her.

I didn't even finish the thought before I was red-cheeked with embarrassment. 

Tammy and Mary Jane? 

No.

The next picture confirmed it.  They were standing together, arms around each other's shoulders and holding the kitten in pocket of their interlaced fingers.  They were giving each other that look.

Anyway, I am surprised as you.  She took me out a few times before my birthday, sometimes with Topher, sometimes not.  She's a smooth operator.

But she was always nice, not like boys our age.

Well, she spoiled me on my birthday, hot oil bath, full body massage, rose petals...I think I'm in love...but it might be heat.  The sex was mindblowing.  I passed out twice. 

We've spent every second we could together this last week, but had to go out sometime.  We saw the kitten and had to adopt her.  Her name is Psy.

"Hey, guys," I called out to the gang, "my best friend just came out.  She's dating my hoyfriend's sister."

"Wo-hoo."  That was Keyla.

"It's serious too," I told her.  "They just had their third date."

"What did they name the kitten?"

Oh no, you didn't.

"How did you know?"

"There's always a kitten, unless they're athletes, and then it's a puppy.  Possibly both."

"Is there some kind of a periodical that I don't subscribe to about all this?"

"There's a whole library of periodicals you don't subscribe to, Dani."

"I mean, do you have a network or something?"

"You mean, like the Yellow Pages?

That was from Lisa Daun, the Odd-squad tranny.  I still didn't know whether heo was a boy or girl, but heo did shave every day.  I'd learned by now that didn't mean anything. 

"No gurl-friend, we all know each other by word-of-mouth."  She turned aside and covered her lips coyly.

"Or is that deed-of-mouth?"

"Wait," Keyla interjected.  "You said hoyfriend.  Is that like boyfriend?  Have you got a squeeze?"

"I think so.  We lived together for a few glorious days before I came here."

"You left glorious for this?"

"I had to Keyla.  I met him too late, after I'd already decided to do this.  I'd wonder the rest of my life if I chickened out and stayed with him."

"So you gotta picture of wonder-boy?"

"Yeah, right here."

"Girlfriend," Chantré said, snatching it out of my hand.  You a coal burner too?"

"Oh, pretty," Keyla mused, "she's got perfect skin."

"Hey," Geyla said when it came to her, "is this a boy or a girl?"

"Neither, Topher is a Rarebit, like me."

"You a rabbit?"

"Rarebit means Rarin-baby.  The drug that caused me to be like I am."

"You mean a psycho freak with a compulsion to show her cooter to the Old Lady?"

"Something like that.  Hit's a wonderful person, and we hit it off."

"Wow.  How old is he...I mean hit?"

"Twenty-three."

"Damn, did your folks wanna kill him?  Mine sure would."

"They emancipated me, and I went to live with him.  But I had to go."

"So," Geyla asked, face aglow with bright-eyed enthusiasm, "What do Rabbits do in bed?"

I looked around, and everybody in the tree house was looking at me, blinking.

"Sleep."

"Cheat," Chantré accused me, "what else?"

"Nothing.  We don't have sex.  Don't make me show you."

"I wonder," she replied sassily, "what you'd do if I called your bluff."

"It's not a bluff," Keyla warned. 

"I know, I was there."

"I'd show you."

She smiled like a fox that owns a chain of henhouses. 

"Or maybe I wouldn't.  You just might get ideas."

"I've already got ideas.  You just don't want me getting them about you."

"Um, yes.  That's exactly accurate."

There was a showdown coming somewhere down the road, but I didn't feel like playing today.

"Sorry, y'all," I told the crowd.  "No sneak peak at the freak geek."