[67—Cieba]

Not all of us went to town, but all the fun ones did—except for July.

Camaraderie was made of this stuff, so I decided not to let the chance to bond with my squadmates go to waste.

"Time for a Spanish lesson."

"Like hell," Kwame protested.  He was our Nigerian Don Juan from this morning.

"Yeah, it's Sunday."

"Then I'm only gonna speak to you in Spanish.  How's that?"

"Not fair," Davy retorted sullenly.  Davy was a sloth, I swear.

"Why not?"

"Because," this was Geyla, sitting beside her little trip.  Reyla wasn't anywhere to be seen; I did mention it was only the fun ones.  "We don't know Spanish."

"Entonces..."

"You're just being mean," Keyla quipped from beside Geyla.

"Pienso que no."  Maybe I was being a bit mean, but they wouldn't learn otherwise.

"Ahora," I continued, "es la tiempo para cantar."

"What the hell are you saying," Davy grumbled.

"Hola Ernesto..." I sung out.

"Who's Ernesto?"

"Muy Bien," I told him and patted him on the arm.

"Hola Carolina," I continued, but Geyla stopped me again.

"Who are these people?  If you're gonna sing, sing to us, dammit."

"Claro," I agreed and started over. 

"Hola Chi-ban-i, Hola Mi-guel-it-o," I sang to two of the boys.

"te presento la cucaracha."

"Hey," Chantré piped up suddenly.  She was usually very quiet. "I know that song."

"Problamente," I answered her and continued singing.

"La cucaracha,

"La cucaracha,

"ya no puede caminar."

"What's it about, Dani," Chantré asked.

"Ah, so you are interested.  I thought you guys didn't want a Spanish lesson."

"Not today," Davy put in.  "But we need to learn."

"So you want to know Spanish but not learn it?  You know, we're heading into a Spanish-speaking town right now.  What better time to learn?"

"But we can't understand it."  It was Geyla again.  "What good does it do to hear it if you don't understand it?"

"How did your parents teach you what an English word meant when you were a little-bitty kid and didn't speak any other languages?"

"That's not the same thing," replied Davy.  Maybe they decided to gang up on me.  Good, they might stand a chance that way.

"Chantré, do you know all the words?"

"I know some.  I don't think it's like a regular song."

"That's right.  It's a corrido.  The lyrics are traditional, but there are many variants.  La Bamba is a corrido as well."

"I'd rather learn that one," Myki said from the back.  "Ritchie Valenz was hot!"

"We'll get to it.  Chantré, you sing what you know, and I'll translate.  How's that sound?"

There were a few grumbles, but a general air of assent.

"La cucaracha," Chantré began in an amazing voice.

"The Cockaroach," I translated into English. "La because cucaracha is female; it ends in an 'a'."

"La cucaracha,

"The Cockaroach."

"ya no puede caminar."

"Already he cannot go—no puede 'one cannot' caminar 'to go'."

"porque le falta,

"Because he is lacking."

"porque no tiene,

"Because one—he—does not have..."

"una pata para andar."

"A foot to walk upon."

"That's all I know," Chantré said.  She seemed embarrassed to be the focus of so much attention.

"That's okay," I told her.  "We can talk about what the words mean.  Thank you Chantré.  Everybody say thanks to Chantré."

They did and I pushed on.

"La Cucaracha was the name of Poncho Villa's chuck-wagon.  Possibly where we get the word 'Roach Coach', but I think that may be a more northerly invention. 

"The song came about during the Mexican Revolution, and has since become traditional.

"There are verses that reflect that:

"ya no puede caminar."

"porque le falta,

"porque no tiene,

"Marijuana que qeu mal. Or alternately Marijuana por fumar.

"The last lines were 'marijuana so-so bad' and 'marijuana to smoke."

My audience erupted with cheers.

***

"Where to," Geyla asked me as we watched the truck drive away in a cloud of dust.

We were on what passed as a highway between the local town of Cieba, and Rand AFB. 

"What do you want to do?  The town will give you a chance to practice your Spanish and try some local cuisine, but that could be good or bad.

"The base, on the other hand, is secure and we can show our ID's and eat in their chow halls.

"It's up to you, but I think we should go in a group, whatever we decide."

"I wanna know," Myki said, snapping flamboyantly over his head, "where there's beer and mens."

That reminded me I was still wearing a condom on my head.

"Well, be sure and use these things, you dig?"

"Uh-huh, little sista'.  I'm gonna par-tay."

It turned out that about half wanted to do each, and no one was willing to compromise.  In the end, both groups left me there on the road.

***

Instead of doing either, I wandered about aimlessly.  I went around the base and ended up near the ocean, just outside Eleanor Roosevelt Interplanetary Spaceport, which despite its impressive name, was a non-event.

There was a triangular pad, no fence, and nothing like the dome encampment of Offutt.  There were three rockets, all sitting idle with no one to attend them.

But there was another, much larger craft lying derelict along the shore.  It was enormous—it dwarfed the Mickey Mouse. 

It was lying half in the surf, nose pointed out to sea, a twisted burnt-out hulk.  The superstructure was demolished; the hull had been breached and I could only see the remains of four of the six engines.  The others were probably buried underneath.

There had clearly been an intense fire here. 

It reminded me of being up there, for such a short, frantic time.  And now, like the wreck of the U.S.S. Burk..something.—for that was all I could read of her name—I was stranded on the rock on which I was born. 

I wondered if I'd ever get to go back up.  Would that be my legacy? 

Here lies Dani Hey-something,

Touched the Heavens

and burned up on reentry?

I felt a hundred thousand miles from anywhere right then.

***

I knew better than to fall asleep on the beach, but I was exhausted and in a precarious state.  I woke up damp and cold sitting in the shade of the former giant. 

There was a crab sitting on my knee, brandishing its claw like a weapon.  Clearly I was an intruder in its territory, and it felt inclined to defend it.

I watched it scramble around, trying to find a way to get at my face, which must loom enormous in its view.

I lowered my knee and it started walking down my leg, then skittered out into the sunlight.

I got up and stretched, watching it amble towards the shore.  There were crabs running up and down the beach and some kind of sea bird hunting them.  They would land right near the shoreline where the crabs were plentiful and pick them off with their stiletto beaks. 

I wasn't sure, in the end, if mine made it to the sea or a bird got it.

The hot of the day was just breaking, maybe 2:30 by the sun, which hung a handspan above the mountains, south of west.  It'd be down by 5:00.

I got up and reoriented myself, then looked at my watch.  2:22. 

I headed back toward the road.

I found the two Spiner sisters walking toward the town.

"Did you wet yourself," Geyla asked me as I came abreast of them.

"No, I feel asleep on the beach.  I had a dream I was flying, in the water."

"Sounds like SCUBA diving."

"It was incredible; like low-gee.  Surely somebody teaches it here."

"In the Jewel of the Carrib?"  I was impressed with her trill.  "I can well imagine."

Cieba was a smallish town, probably a village before the Americans came in after the Eleven Years' War.  It retained its Old World flavor, but it was muted somehow, like the pink stone buildings or stucco villas were actually wallpaper.  What stood out was the modern world; the neon sign of the deli, a late-model sedan from the States. 

It boggled the mind.  There were few cars, but bicycles aplenty, I even once saw a burro, packed high with beans and being driven by a child no more than ten.

It was dirty too, the kind of dreck that builds up in the wake of expatriate Americans.  I saw cigarette packs and butts, broken soda and beer bottles, candy wrappers, and all manner of left-over western food, too much for the tourists to bother with.

Never once did I see a discarded tamale, or bowl of beans.

We found a scuba shop by its flag.  The red jack with a white bend was flying under a flag I knew about, but had never seen flown.  It was often called the Pacifist Flag, because it was white with blue bars, and a red canton of stars.

Americans, whether expatriate or tourist abroad, who flew this flag were rarely pawns of imperial capitalism.  We decided to drop in.

The shop was in a hollow, mostly obscured by a large sandbank and well shaded by a stand of coconut palms.  There were bats hanging from the eaves, among peppers and banana leaves.

It was five degree cooler in the courtyard.  The sand was wet, and a refreshing mist wafted from somewhere.

We went through a wall of wet muslin curtains and it was downright chilly.

Everything was rough about the place, the structure, the decor, the crude furniture, but not the merchandize.

The centerpiece featured a tall hexagonal fish tank, a column of light itself, on a black dais, which held the larger gear, but there were mirrored shelves above that, holding masks and flippers, and all matter of things I didn't know what they were for.  It sure was pretty.

"Can I help you," a swarthy young man asked in a voice upon which countless teenage fantasies have been built.  He was twenty-something, handsome, and well-groomed.  I saw Geyla's eyes glaze over.

"I sure hope so," she said, and slid in closer to him.

"We would like," I said in Spanish, grabbing her elbow and towing her away from the hunk, "to inquire about SCUBA lessons for me and my friend.

"And obedience training for my dog here."  I patted Geyla on the head.  "She gets so excited around strangers.  She always goes straight for the crotch when she's off her leash."

He brushed back his long, dark hair and looked at us all.

"Yeah, I could do that."

"When?"

"Anytime, bambita."

He seemed a bit too focused. 

"Excuse me," I said in English, "Can you tell me when classes are?"

"Classes are held every day," a soft voice said in Spanish from the doorway, "but you needn't attend every one."

It came from a short but voluptuous woman maybe forty years old.  She floated across the room, as if her feet never touched the ground.

"I would be happy to schedule."

"Thank you," I answered her in the same tongue.  "How long does it take?"

"Seven classes, but you may attend them at your convenience.  The first three classes are here, in the classroom, then we practice in the pool, before moving out into open water."

"How much does it cost?"

"Ninety dollars, US."

That seemed like a lot, but I wanted to do it.

"What about you two," I asked Geyla and Keyla, "do you want to learn to SCUBA dive?"

"How much," I asked the woman, "if we all took the same classes at the same time.  You wouldn't have to teach extra."

"There is always extra, but I will give you a discount.  Eighty apiece for two of you, seventy each for all three."

"She says seventy apiece if we all do it."

"I ain't got seventy bucks," Keyla said.

"And I got better things to do with the money I do have," Geyla added.

"What if I paid for it?"

I could spare two-hundred and ten dollars from my bank account.

"Does that include gear?  Can I do it all on Sundays?"

"Yes," the old woman assured me, "and yes.  You can do the whole course in two weekends, if you can stand it.   But it's a lot to take in and you need to be able to swim."

I've had my YWCA Swimming Cert since I was nine.

"I don't know," Keyla said, "This seems like a lot of work.  I was thinking about having fun instead."

"Yeah," Geyla cut in with the same pitch and timbre, "me too."

"Okay," I told them.  But I wasn't gonna just give up.  "Y'all go on ahead.  I'm gonna stay and check it out."

They left and I turned back to the woman.

"So it's three hours of class, and I can do it all in one Sunday.  Can I start next weekend?"

"You can start today," she said and held out her hand, "if you give me ninety dollars."

[66—Safer sex]

I'd never encountered promiscuity before, but I woke up to what I could only guess was a room full of it.

With eight or ten people sleeping on the floor—out in the open and amongst relative strangers— one might be surprised to find a couple entwined separately under their own blankets, making loud love.

I could hear lispsmacking and dull moans.  I walked by them, not knowing who it was and approached Jared at the fire.

I heard another pair, in the opposite corner as I passed.  These were in deep throes of passion, and making no effort to be quiet.  It was one of the guys, or probably two.  It was still dark enough I could only hear them, not see into the corner.

Any doubts of the identity of the couple vanished when a heavy Nigerian voice boomed out "Oh man, take him big, red boy...I'm coming!"

You could have heard the proverbial pin drop, after the heavy breathing stopped.  Even the two girls making out in the other corner stopped and had a laugh.

Jared was bright red; I think he was innocent once, back before Troop 421.

"Any more coffee," I asked him sitting down beside the fire.

"Dregs," he answered and tossed a couple of twisty roots into it.

I poured myself about a quarter of a cup of inky black muck swimming with unnamed lumps.  I swirled it around in the firelight and gulped it down, hoping I wasn't drinking too many bugs.

I reflected on how much better the coffee was on Ophiuchus than here, ironic when we were among the best coffee producers on Earth.

"So I guess you're not used to this?"

I pointed my cup toward the gay couple in the corner.

"No, can't say I've ever overheard that before."

"So why did you end up here?  No offense, but you don't seem like a freak."

"Doesn't bother me.  I wrote 'don't care' down when they asked us what kind of people we wanted to bunk with."

"Oh."

"How about you?"

"They didn't ask, but then I was late getting here.  I think it was on account of my sex."

He looked confused. 

"They put you in the odd-squad because you're a girl?"

"No, because I'm not anything.  My ID says 'O'."

"You're an other?  Wow, I had no idea."

"Yeah, I'm a neuter.  I still don't understand why everybody is so uptight about it."

"Yeah, you'd think we're lepers in this squad.  I said I wasn't prejudiced, or scared.  That's all it took, apparently.  I'm branded for life now."

"Does it worry you?"

"No, not a bit."  He stood up.  "Have you got this fire?"

"Yeah," I told him, slipping into his seat.  It was warm.

***

Daybreak came finally, and with it, bird calls. 

Last night it had been frogs, a Biblical plague of them, and I could see they were into everything by dawn's early light.

My squad leader was up early, making something breakfasty from our meager supplies.  One of the frogs jumped out of her bowl, dusted white.

"Sugar," she exclaimed.

I went over to where she was working. 

"Sugary breakfast frogs," I asked, dipping my finger into the batter.  It tasted...bad.

"Coquíes," she sniffed as another one jumped in.  "They are unique to the Island," she picked it out and showed it to me.  "Not like other frogs.  These ones don't seem afraid of people."

"Wait," I asked her, suddenly realizing that the mixture contained eggs.  "Where did you get the eggs?"

"From the Easter Bunny," she teased, pointing to the discarded shells.  They were in multiple pastel colors.

"Um," I began, but faltered.  Another coquí jumped into the bowl.

She flicked it out with a spoon, without even stopping.

"Don't worry, Dani.  They are from Guinea Fowl.  Like chickens but they lay colored eggs.  Trust me you won't be able to tell the difference."

"But we're in a National Park."

"And they're invasive.  The P.R. authorities ain't gonna arrest us because we made pancakes with guinea eggs."

That's what she was making?  Pancakes?

"What are you gonna use for a griddle?"

"Hadn't really thought that far ahead.  I figured I'd just threaten everybody with 'em and you'd be up at the chow tent before I could put out the fire."

"Isn't that a waste of food?"

"You've obviously never had my pancakes.  If the truck has a flat, we can replace it with a short stack.  Dow Chemical has been after my recipe for years."

"Hello the camp," someone was approaching.  It was the Lieutenant.

"Time to get back in," she said, looking around at the bodies in heaps under still damp blankets, discarded clothing, and the breaded white frog on the wall.  "Just as soon as you get this place cleaned up.  What the hell happened here?"

"Just makin' brekkie," Lunch told her and spooned her up some batter.

"Didn't you learn your lesson last time?"  She turned away and spoke under her breath.  "You'd think two EPA warnings would suffice."

"Up and att'em," girlie-men," she hollered, ripping off blankets and prodding buttocks with her jungle boots.  They were almost all naked, except Reyla, who was wearing a full-length nightgown and even had a sleeping mask over her eyes.  She sat up like a nestling and reached for the mask.

"Don't do it, Reyla," her sister warned, but it was too late.

Everyone else was awake and scrambling for their clothes.

"No hurry Ladies," Nguyen hollered at the wave of naked butts; Keyla and Jemmi tried to pull on the same pair of panties.  "You don't have anything I've never seen."

I bet I did.

Reyla screamed and covered her eyes.  It would have been easy to feel sorry for her, to whom this must truly be hell, had I not talked to her little sister last night.

"I warned you," Geyla told her.  Someone threw a pair of damp boxers over her poor abused eyes.

***

There were trucks, mercifully, for us to load our mess onto and take us back to camp.  We were filthy miserable wretches, covered in mud and dressed in even filthier clothes. 

The Lieutenant made us clean, dry and sort it all out before we were allowed to leave for other endeavors. 

It was Sunday, and by tradition, there was no muster all day.

"There's a truck heading into town—the airbase, the market, and all that—and it'll leave from here in fifteen minutes.  You can all go or stay, whichever you will, but remember it returns at dusk. 

"Any later than that and you're on your own.  Don't miss muster, come Monday morning."

July came back from the CQ tent with mail and a helmetful of condoms.  She handed the post out; there was nothing for me.

"I want," she told us, fetching a handful of rubbers from the helmet, "for you little bitches to use these things.  All of you."

She worked her way down the line, giving us each a bunch. 

I took one in my teeth and bundled up my hair as Keyla snickered beside me.  I tore into the package and stuffed the bun into the tip, unrolling the body down over my ears.

Lieutenant Nguyen saw me and came over to investigate.

"What the hell are you doing, Heywood?"

"Using a condom Lieutenant."

"I meant for sex."

"Not having sex."

"Yeah, that's what they all say.  Then they go see Dr. Mendez with a case of swollen tummy."

"Hate to disappoint you, but I mean 'I can't', not 'I won't'."

"Look, ice britches, just because you're frigid, or asex, or you took a vow, doesn't mean you aren't gonna change your mind the first time you do the tequila dance."

"I said can't."

"Oh yeah? Well, maybe Jody has other ideas.  Look, people fuck.  Shit happens, but it doesn't have to mean streptomycin and the Valentine Irrigator.  Use the fucking condoms.  That's what they're there for."

"I'm using a condom right now, for the only possible purpose to which I could put it."

"Heywood, you're really pissing me off."

"You sure are a stubborn cuss, but I'm from Missouri; here, I'll show you."

I grabbed her by the lanyard of her whistle and tugged hard.  I marched over to the CQ tent, more surprised by my actions than any who looked on.

Dani, an inner voice warned, have you lost your mind at last?

I led her past the CQ and into her office.  I sat down and unlaced my boots.

"What are you doing, Heywood?"

I took my pants off and crooked a finger; she came to me willingly.

I hopped up on the desk and slid my panties off.  She was wide-eyed, but not moving at all.

I put my hands of both of her shoulders and forced her to her knees. 

"Look," I hollered and spread my legs.  "I'm not a girl.  I can't be fucked.  Got it?"

"Wow," she said, jolting to her feet.  She was pink in the cheeks and, I think, in shock.  "You really are different, aren't you?"

We went back out, the Lieutenant still a bit stunned, and me in my stocking feet, carrying my boots.

I knew it would make a big stink, but I thought it would take longer than this.

There was already a crowd outside the door, leering, and whistling.  Lunch even offered me a cigarette.

I snatched one from the pack and stuck it between my lips.

[65—Trips]

Saturday, eleven AM and already it was hot enough to fry eggs.  We were down by the beach—a long way from the Park—cutting up drift wood and undergrowth along the edges of the Boonies.

There were fourteen of us in my squad, including Lunch.  She'd deputized Jared, our resident geek, and split us into three work parties of four.  The other two were assigned lookout—because you just never know—and to make sure we all drank enough water.

We'd started out before dawn, working our way into the bush, separating the useful wood, burning the rest.  We had a huge bonfire by daylight, and worked on our cache all morning.

Now it was time for siesta.

Working out in this hot, it made sense to cool down on the site before heading back to the showers.

I waded out to my knees in the water.  Keyla flopped on the ground, right beside me; I just wouldn't do that.  I wouldn't even sit on a stump, much less the sand or worse yet, a pile of dead leaves.  She was wearing shorts, too. 

She was out in the surf before long, rolling up her shirt and picking at her waistband and cuffs.

"This beach is terrible," she complained.  "Why the hell does it itch so bad?"

"Sea salt," I suggested, "sand fleas, diatoms, take your pick."

"It itches."

"Yes, it does.  That's why they told us to stay out of it."

"When?"

"This morning, plus the Lieutenant told us at the axe demo yesterday."

"Oh," she was still picking the cloth away from her crotch.

"So why do you think," I asked her and she gave me a look.  My squad-mates had already learned to flinch at my questions. 

Personal questions, especially about family and the past, were discouraged to the point of being forbidden.  But my question was about something that happened here, which made it fair game; it just happened to involve her sisters. 

"Why do I think what?"

"Why do you think Lunch separated you three into different teams?"

"I don't care," she said plainly.  "I mean, Geyla is okay, in small doses, but Reyla is just a stupid cow."

"But she's your sister."  Your twin sister who's two years older, but I can't ask you about that.

"She's a bitch."

That pretty much stopped any attempt at friendship dead in its tracks.

"Okay," I replied, trying to show I wasn't pushing.  It was time to get back to camp anyway.

"Let's go," I called to the rest of my teammates, "showers and lunch before you hit your cot.  Let's shake a leg; the truck will be here any minute."

***

We rode back to camp and got off at the Lunchbox and some went off to the showers.  There was no point racing to them, they'd be full for at least a half hour.

I threw myself down on my bunk, intending to bounce up in a second and write my folks.

I woke up sometime later, with somebody standing beside my bed.  The Sun's rays said it was past two.

"Dani."

It was Chibani, the big Indian kid in our squad.  He was shy and somewhat easily cowed.

The word was strange, I knew it from the trip through Oklahoma—it was spelled cepane in my Muskokee-English dictionary.  It meant 'boy' and was used like 'bubba' or 'buddy' in English.  He was from Florida, the original home of the Muskokee speaking Indians.

Chibani Sixkiller was huge, like he ate a Sumo wrestler and was 'strong like bear, smart like tractor'.  He could be quite intimidating, but was mostly quiet and introspective.  In the two days I'd known him, he'd pretty much told me his life story, his likes and dislikes, and all manner of details I neither needed nor wanted to know.

Of course, he followed me around like a puppy dog.

But he was great to have on my team; he could do three times the work I could, and he listened.

"What do you need?"

"Only, it's time for you to get up."

"Why," I asked, "what's on fire?"

He chuckled.  "Nothin's on fire."

"What are the rules?"

"No wakin' up Dani," he began...

"Unless?"

"Unless there is water rising faster than I can bail..."

His brow was knit with concentration.  This was taxing to him.

"Good, what else?"

"Fire that I can't put out..."

He was practically wagging his tail.

"And the last one?"

"Arter...artherial...spurting blood."

"Excellent."  I patted him on the shoulder and sat up in bed.  "So why did you wake me up?"

He was proud as punch.  You could see it in his eyes. 

His story was sad; he told me he remembered being smart, 'like everybody else' when he was a kid, but a subcranial hematoma, and a disregard for seatbelts, had rendered him simple.  You could scarcely see the scar over his left eye—his eyebrow covered most of it; neither could the doctors explain the extent, nor the exact nature of his injury. 

It couldn't have lasted more than a second—his mother had been adjusting the rear-view mirror and didn't see the other car until the last second.  She slammed on the brakes and dashed his forehead into the glove box.  The knob didn't shatter, but his skull did—a tiny divot of bone was driven into his brain.  Whether that caused the damage, or the subsequent surgery to remove it was never at issue; it was simply necessary to save his life, but it did scramble his brains. 

I gather he wasn't a Rhodes Scholar before the accident, but anyone who can survive that is a force to be reckoned with.

I never understood why people didn't like to work with the slightly slow.  They are almost always eager to please you, and they work very hard.

It may take them a little longer, but they'll get there.

"S-siesta's over.  It's time to go back to work."

Damn.  I'd overslept and missed lunch and a shower.  Oh well, nobody on the labor detail would complain.  I hadn't even taken off my boots before I crashed.

I hopped down and followed him out of the tent.

It was cooler at least.  The rain would come soon.

I could miss a meal or two and not break down, but it wouldn't do to skip my water.  I dropped by the mess tent and drank my quota.  I filled my canteens, and made sure Chibani did too.

***

We picked up where we left off, but the dirty work had already been done.  We fell to with hatchets and axes and by dusk, we had three ricks of wood, neatly stacked.

We closed in around our bonfires, laying out our tools where we could find them and stretched out the stiffness in the last long rays of dusk.

We were gathering up to leave when we saw a pair of headlights, coming down to the beach from the camp.

It was a deuce-and-a-half, with high sideboards.  We weren't expecting it; we'd come down in a pickup truck.

The Lieutenant and a driver from the motor pool were in it.

"There's crates and tarps," Nguyen yelled in a voice that carried like thunder, "in the back of this truck.  Get 'em off and get the tools and firewood on.  We got twenty minutes before it rains, and it's gonna be a pisscutter."

We scrambled to comply, but didn't get it done in time.  In ten minutes, we were soaking wet, and only two ricks of the wood was loaded and under tarps. 

"What about us," Lunch asked her.

"Troop 421 is staying out.  Emergency response exercise."

"What about the other squads?"

"They sent trucks to all of them.  We'll send out contacts after the worst of it.

"Right now," she yelled over the awful din of the rain.  It hit like a whip on the skin.  "Get some shelter rigged, and get the supplies under it.  We have ponchos, so hand them out too."

We only had tarps and rope to make one shelter, and not enough of either.

The ground was a hopeless morass and the beach was unthinkable.  Besides sinkholes and the waves, detritus was again being swept onto the beach from the jungle and out into the sea. 

It was months too early for a hurricane.  But the local almanac showed it rained plenty in January—at least what I'd call plenty.  It would dry out gradually until spring, then it would rain cats and dogs from March until November.  I just couldn't wait until the real wet season started.

We got everything to the top of a hill with lots of trees.

"Somebody get me an axe," Nguyen said, and held out her hand like one would appear.

"We don't have any," Jared told her, "you said to put then on the truck."

"And you didn't think to hold any back," she asked incredulously.  "Well, no doubt you'll learn next time." She raised her hand and yelled at the squad.  "You got machetes, right?"

We all did.

She turned to Lunch and said "okay, get 'em working on the shelter.  Don't clear out too many trees, or it'll become a mudslide.  Run a heavy line between two big trees, and string a peaked roof over it.  Remember to overlap the seams. 

"Use the hammocks to keep the perishables out of the wet.  Anyone who don't like it can sleep out in the rain."

"All right, you cretins," Lunch bleated without much enthusiasm, "you heard the lady."

An hour later we had a roof and a floor.  The floor was just rough logs laid out in rows across braces and staked down, but it was serviceable.  We added a layer of wet wool blankets, the one thing we had aplenty.

"Let's get them crates open," Lunch ordered when she got back from the rain. 

"Why," I asked her, "wouldn't the supplies be safer in their crates?"

"Not necessarily," she explained.  "They like to play games on these exercises.  They always give you mystery crates, and they're never labeled.  Repple Depple thinks it keeps us on our toes. 

"I think it's a bunch of crumby nonsense, but it is realistic.  There's no telling what we got there."

We had five crates, but only one was labeled—sliced peaches in heavy syrup.

One person had saved back her hatchet and we were able to get into the crates with it.

The first one contained two gross of condoms and feminine hygiene products.  The former could be used for waterproof caps, sterile mittens, prophylactic undersocks.  The latter would go into the medical kit.

The second was a Coleman gas stove with no gas.

The next two were care packages, like the ones Red Cross used to send to POWs.  Each crate held three identical kits, each containing a towel, a razor, a bar of army soap, can of Sterno, a tin of mystery meat, a pack of cigarettes with two books of matches, a small sack of flour and dried vegetables, a knife, fork, and spoon, a tin cup, tin plate, and a roll of toilet paper.  Two had a package of chewing gum and the other four had chocolate bars.

Then we broke open the last crate.  It was canned food alright, but only three cans were peaches.  The rest were sauerkraut, pork and beans, pumpkin pie filling, and creamed corn.  I would have bet my life it all came from a food drive.

The rain kept on and Lunch decided we should get the rest of the firewood off the beach.  We took turns, sharing the six good ponchos we owned with condoms on our heads to keep our hair dry, and brought of the bulk of the remaining rick before we were too exhausted to fetch it from the surf.

We laid down, drenched and panting, my team and Jared's, all too tired even to shuck our shoes off.

I woke up some time later, and realized the rain had slacked off.  Jared's team was up and tending the fire, but badly—our makeshift canopy was full of smoke.

"Jeezus, Jared," I coughed, approaching the fire.  It was under a canvas lean-to, which directed the smoke right into the enclosure; plus, they had put up a line of blankets around the perimeter, so the smoke couldn't get out.

"What?"

"You trying to asphyxiate everybody?"

"No, the smoke is keeping the bugs away."

"What bugs?  It's raining cats and dogs out there."

"I think you mean termites and bullet ants.  The insects don't like the wet anymore than we do.  I can't keep the creepy-crawleys off the floor, but a good head of smoke gets rid of the no-see-ums."

"No-see-ums?"

"Mosquitoes, chiggers, gnats, assorted other little bastards.  Those things will kill you in the tropics."

"How do you know that?  You're a boot like me."

"I grew up in Biloxi," he said nonchalantly.  "We have to give the mosquitoes right-of-way, and the fire ants are allowed to vote."

"Where's Lunch?  Did she ever find the Lieutenant?"

No one had seen her since the she'd asked about the axe.

"No, she's been asleep for three hours now.  But the Lieutenant has been found, or more correctly, the Lieutenant has regained contact."

"Where has she been?  And is that coffee?"

"Yeah, you wanna cup?  It's pretty bad."

"Would I?  I'd kill for chicory right now."

"This is worse, pencil shavings and old boots."

I poured myself a cup. 

"Where did it come from?"

"There's always coffee," he explained, "provided you don't ask where it came from."

"Why wouldn't I ask where it's from?"

"Because, I might tell you."

It was worse than he had insinuated, but I drank it all the same.  It was hot, and didn't taste like wet dogs.

It may have even kept me awake.

"So where is Nguyen?  Did she ride home with the trucks?"

"No, she's been at the other campsites, with the other squads.  She's been up all night, I think.  We had a runner come through a while ago, and brought us the coffee.  It's instant, but I traded two packs of cigarettes for enough to make a couple of pots."

"What time is it?"

"Who knows?  Around two, I think.  Dawn is a long way off yet."

"Wait, I have my watch.  It's 2:17.  You want me to relieve you at 3:00?"

"Yeah."

I set my alarm and crawled off to sleep, but I couldn't.  I guess the coffee was keeping me awake, but there could be more to it than that. 

I snuggled into the nearest back, shivering under the wet covers.

"Is that you Dani," asked a voice I recognized as Keyla's.

"Yes," I whispered into her ear, "do you mind if I spoon with you?  It's awfully chilly in the damp..."

"Go right ahead.  Grab a tit if you want, I wouldn't mind."

"Maybe I shouldn't."

"No, I'm just ragging, not hitting on you."

"Oh, I sometimes can't tell."

"So, do you have any sisters, Dani?"

"I have a sister, and a brother, both younger."

"Oh. I just have the two, but I think Ma and Pa want to try for more of us; Ma's been baby crazy lately.  They think they're failures after me and Geyla."

"Why?"

She rolled over to face me.  I could only see her by the light reflected in her eyes.

"Because we're not normal.  Unnatural, they'd say.  Look, I know we didn't exactly bond like soul sisters before, but I want you to know I'm not a stone cold bitch."

"Why would I think that?  Your sisters are not my business."

"I've been around them my whole life," she continued, as if she had to explain it to me, "and they're just like me, only better.  They're older, smarter, prettier, and get better grades.  Do you know what it's like to be the little trip?"

"Little trip?"

"Yeah; we're trips.  My folks had fertility treatments, and when they got lots of embryos, they had Reyla and Geyla and had the rest of us frozen.  They thawed me out later, because they thought it was cute.  I'd have been a twin too, or identical multiple birth—this whole trip thing gives 'twin' new meaning.  The word 'clone' would work better."

"So, what happened?"

"She died.  Nine weeks in, she just gave up and quit.  I spent the next two trimesters alone and the next seventeen years with those two.  Just as well—what other name rhymes with Keyla?"

She had bitter tears in her eyes.  I gave her my handkerchief.

"Sorry.  It must've been rough, growing up in their shadow."

"No, it was fine growing up.  We were best friends until I hit puberty.  I started liking girls, and that didn't sit too well with our religion.  When Geyla came out, they sent us all off to save-a-queer camp, Reyla too, to give us a good example and moral support."

"Ow.  So what was it like?  Compared to here?"

"This is much better here, believe me.  Though I bet Reyla thinks it's hell-on-earth.  When Geyla and I decided to cut our losses with the family and volunteer, Reyla had to come along.  We couldn't stop her."

"So your parents disowned you?"

"My parents and Reyla, which you'd think means she'd leave me alone.  But they didn't disown Geyla.  She's likes boys too, so they out hold hope that it's a phase and she'll get married some day.  They're forever trying to fix us up, all three of us, with pervy little church boys who only want one thing."

She dried her eyes and blew her nose.

"Thanks for the kerchief," she said, handing it back.  "I'm sorry for gushing like that.  I just haven't had anyone to talk to since, well, ever I guess.  I don't know what came over me."

"There are counselors here, like psychologists and such.  You can make an appointment to see one."

"Fine," she said, suddenly shutting down.  "Sorry to bother you."

"No, that's all right; I'm just trying to keep myself from getting in too deep.  If you need to talk, I'd love to listen, but you'd do better with a counselor.  Why not do both?"

"Do you mean that, Dani?"

"Sure, Keyla, we all need somebody to lean on."

"Thanks," she said, grabbing a quick hug under the covers.

"No problem."  She nuzzled against my neck.  "And before you ask, no you can't kiss me."

"Damn."