Fire With Fire

zaps with the paddles.” She broke the accusing stare, picked up her gym bag: “Anyway, I’ll never know if you’re telling me the truth or not, so I might as well let it go-but that’s the problem, isn’t it, Mr. Downing? I never know if you’re telling me the truth.”

He couldn’t bring himself to contradict her: that would be just one more lie. “You can be sure of this: today you’re free.”

“Free to do what? To become a commando-courtesan for a man I don’t even know? You’ve got a mighty strange definition of ‘freedom,’ Mr. Downing.”

“Captain, you’re not a civilian-and nor am I. For us, freedom isn’t a blank check: it’s a limited, occasional luxury-that we buy for millions of others at the expense of our own.”

She looked up: he hadn’t realized that the tone of his voice had become so sharp. Then she nodded: “Okay, you’re a true believer. I wasn’t sure until right now, when you got pissed off at me. Took two weeks to find out, but better late than never.” She rose, walked over to him, put her hands on her hips and looked up into his face from only a foot away. “Nothing else could make what you do excusable. I still don’t like you; I still don’t trust you. But I can accept a person who feels he is performing a necessary duty.” She extended her hand.

Downing looked at it, smiled, was grateful, but also thought: I should find out how good she is.

He extended his hand toward hers, but at the last possible moment, reached past it and grabbed her wrist-

— but she had seen, or felt, it coming. She let him pull her in-he had the advantage of height and weight-but stepped outside and past him. With surprising-fearsome-speed, she had her right leg snugged behind his right knee. He felt her trapped hand recoil sharply, tugging him toward a forward fall-but the instant that he leaned back to pull away, her left hand came up, grabbed a fistful of his right shoulder and shirt, and added a sharp push to his backward reflex.

Flat on his back, Downing looked up at her. “Textbook,” he grunted. “Well done.”

“Wish I could say the same for you, Scarecrow. That was pretty predictable.”

He rose to his spare elbows. “Just a basic check; sometimes, after extended time in cryosleep, reflexes go along with short-term memories.”

“Not in my case. Here.” She extended a hand to help him up.

He smiled crookedly, reached across with his own right hand-and again, snapped it down sharply on her wrist.

But she rolled her wrist around and out of his grab, even as she once again allowed herself to be pulled forward by him, this time into a trajectory that carried her across his body. But as her right wrist finished rotating, the outer edge of her hand came up around his own wrist, clasped hard. She landed on the far side of his body, breaking her fall with her right knee, and using her left hand to secure a double grip on his wrist. She tugged towards herself sharply with both hands. Downing felt his elbow snap straight and then strain uncomfortably: his upper arm was tucked unyielding against her right tibia. Four or five more foot-pounds of backward pressure on his forearm from the combined pull of her arms and his elbow would snap.

“Ow,” he said.

Her eyes-the color of pecans, the shape of almonds-did not blink or smile. “Do I pass the audition or do we dance some more?”

“That will be quite enough, Captain: I’m done.”

Her eyes flicked down at his pilloried elbow. “Yes, I’d say you are.” She pushed his arm away in the same motion that she used to stand up. “Like I said, Downing, you never give me reason to do anything except distrust-”

And she stopped. Her eyes were looking beyond him, her mouth still open a little, but the words abandoned. He rolled his head around, back in the direction of the shadowed archway.

A man was walking out of its black maw: Caine. “Am I interrupting-something?” he asked, looking from Opal to Downing.

“No, no, not at all, Caine. Just had a tumble trying to get in a little exercise of my own. Can’t keep up with this young lady. She’s too fit for me, I’m afraid.”

Opal offered Downing a helpful hand, tried to smile at him, failed. Caine stepped in, extended his hand as soon as she had finished helping Downing. “Hello. I don’t think we really had a chance to meet, other than a few minutes in the back of that vertibird five weeks ago. I’m Caine Riordan.”

She seemed to think about that for a moment-and then Downing realized why she was pausing: she’s attracted to him. No surprise: he’s handsome enough and fit. An excellent start. “Nice to meet you,” she was saying. “I’m Opal-Opal Patrone. Can’t say I remember you-or really anything about that night, really. They tell me that you lose memories if they jump-start you out of coldsleep.”

Caine looked sidelong at Downing. “Supposedly, if they put you under or wake you up too quickly, memories get lost. Something about trauma to the chemical encoding of memories, with the more recent ones being the most vulnerable. Although I seem to have been particularly susceptible.”

“What do you mean?” Which was theater, since she had been briefed about Riordan’s memory loss. So, she also lies passably well.

He broke eye contact, looked off at nothing in the stands: “I seem to have lost a bit more memory than usual.”

“I’m sorry.”

Caine looked at her with a sharp yet sympathetic intensity. “From what I hear, some people have it far worse than I do.”

Opal started. “You mean me? Oh, I don’t know: a fresh start on life sounds good. Particularly since I was pretty much dying when they put me in the freezer.”

Caine didn’t say anything; but his lips crinkled upward at the edges, as if the two of them had shared a rueful private joke. She smiled back-and Downing sensed that she was about to move closer to him. No, too soon. She’s so damned frank, she’ll chase him off. Downing preemptively edged closer to Caine, blocking her. “When did you get in?”

“About an hour ago. Nolan also wanted me to tell you that your collarcom is dead, and that you have a briefing at 1900 hours.” He turned to Opal. “Ms. Patrone, can I offer you a lift, or-?”

Downing strolled toward the track. “Actually, that’s Captain Patrone. I’d be grateful if you could give her a ride back: I was late coming to collect her, and I’d like to get in a quick jog. Be a good chap and take her on back to the villa-or better yet, why not take a quick sightseeing tour?”

“Sightseeing?” Opal repeated incredulously.

Damnit, woman: do you have any subtle courtship instincts whatsoever? Downing provided a more specific prompt: “You certainly have enough time to drive up to the Legonia overlook. The ocean views are breathtaking. Or so I’m told.”

That seemed to get Opal back on track. She smiled at Caine. “After being cooped up for almost six weeks, that sounds wonderful. It’s also just what the doctors ordered. Literally.”

Caine’s eyes had not left hers, although his eyebrows had risen a notch when Downing had indicated that she was an officer. “Well, Captain Patrone? Want to see the sights?”

Opal smiled back. “Oh, just call me Opal-and yes, I’d love a look around. But, fair warning: you might want to rethink your offer. I’ve been working out for almost ninety minutes in this heat.” She used thumbs and forefingers to pull her sweat-soaked shirt away from her torso; when she let it go, it fell back and clung to her closely. Unplanned, but a nice effect, Downing had to admit.

Caine managed not to glance down at her shirt-sculpted breasts, but his smile may have broadened a bit: “No matter her condition, it’s always a privilege to help a lady in need-or to squire her about.”

She laughed out loud-quite genuinely, Downing thought. “My, how gallant!” she exclaimed. “Lead on.”

Chapter Sixteen

ODYSSEUS