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The soldiers of 3rd Platoon, B Company, badly mauled by their last mission, take R&R while awaiting reinforcements. Julie Verne, up-and-coming dog/space marine, comes to grips with what she has done and, as a karmic reward, experiences some of the more sensual pleasures life has to offer: ceviche, sex, and the symphony orchestra.

A lull, after the freneticism of the previous action, marks chapter six of Cry Havoc!, the serial novel in which we explore the lives of dogs and space marines. And dog space marines. There is a sex scene in this one (two, if you count listening to Rimsky-Korsakov), so avoid it if sex makes your eyes melt._ If you like it, the rest of the novel will follow in installments as I write them. Beyond that, read and enjoy -- and as always, please chime in with criticism and feedback. Per ardua ad astra, and all that!_

Released under the Creative Commons BY-NC-SA license. Share, modify, and redistribute -- as long as it's attributed and noncommercial, anything goes.

Cry Havoc!, by Rob Baird -- Ch. 6, "Les Bon Temps"

---

Hey everybody, let's have some fun; You only live once and when you dead, you done. Let it roll, Let the good times roll. Well, no matter if you're young or old, You just gotta let the good times roll.

• Clifton Chenier, "Bon Ton Roulet"

"I know that there have been rumors going around as to what the future of the company is. There's been some speculation that we're going to be disbanded. I just got back from a meeting with Colonel Cho and Captain Freeman, so I can categorically say that that's not going to happen. We're still a fully chartered combat unit, even after... everything."

"Does that mean we're still in drop rotation?"

"No, Jim," Usher said flatly. "Cho said she realized that would be, ah... impractical. We're at less than half strength right now, and if you ignore Fourth Platoon that still makes us the least fucked. I think everyone understands that Bravo Company is combat ineffective, so we've been pulled from the lineup pending reinforcements. Lieutenant Mackey's platoon is being reassigned to the 26th for operations over the next few weeks. Gus and I will get replacement men from the next convoy; unfortunately, First Platoon will be completely rebuilt. Between the KIAs and people buying out the rest of their contracts, there's all of two people left that aren't aircrew. Not really enough to make it worthwhile."

"Are we pulling out of our contract?" Mayer asked. "Down in medical, the doctor said scuttlebutt was the big boss was going to look for an escape clause after the last op. Are we staying here, or getting the hell out?"

Usher's first answer was a haunted smile. "What, you think we'd be the kind of guys that give up just when things start to get interesting? No, I'm afraid we can't do that. Jefferson has offered to renegotiate the contract, so we're supposed to be getting more money out of it -- but we're definitely not leaving. Things on the surface are going too pear-shaped for us to pull out without looking weak."

"Pear-shaped?"

"As it turns out, setting off a nuclear explosive is not a good way to endear yourself to the government. Popular sentiment in the east is calling for a more aggressive military response. Correspondingly, the separatist elements in the west are growing bolder. They blew up a police station in Lincoln City yesterday -- conventional, thank god -- and shot down a transport heading for Trumanville this morning."

"This sounds remarkably," Fran Horvat muttered, "like something we aren't supposed to call a 'civil war.'"

"Well, you can call it that. Just be careful who you say it to," Usher told her. "Or which part you use. Officially, it's all still very 'civil' indeed -- protests, threats of a strike, calls for reform, that kind of thing. I imagine everyone believes that a declaration of independence is coming -- but until it does, we're preserving order in a few troubled communities, nothing more."

"Not even then," McArdle added, "since there's no way in hell the government in New Philadelphia would recognize the declaration. The senior NCO bulletin this morning asks me to politely remind you all that the Colonial Defense Authority is here to offer direct support to local police agencies in responding to isolated illegal activity. If anybody asks, there's nothing military about our presence and we're not taking any independent action -- but it's better not to comment at all."

"Thanks, Jim. It's some timely advice. We're not really good for much right now, and according to Colonel Cho we've got a week of shore leave starting tomorrow. Three weeks of planetside duty after that -- logistics support around Joseph P. McConnell Air Station, and some intensive training once we get our new men. McConnell is about ten kilometers north of New Philadelphia, so we'll be in friendly territory, but watch who you talk to and what you say. I mean, from an OPSEC standpoint, of course -- but we're also the public face of the company down there. People are going to be curious, and that's fine -- but don't do anything I'm going to have to apologize for, okay? If there are no other questions, I'd like to see Chris, Oscar and Jules one at a time in my office."

The rest of the platoon dispersed, and Julie stuck by Chris as they walked over to the lieutenant's office; Oscar had gotten there first, stepping inside to leave the two facing each other. "What do you think this is about?"

She shook her head. "I honestly don't have a clue. Debriefing would be my guess. You're both in the same squad with Wangari, right? Is she okay?"

"She looked okay," Chris thought out loud. "Not mobile, yet, but she said she wasn't going to cash in her band-aid points. I heard Kaz was thinking about it, though."

"So did I." She didn't know Sergeant Kazimierz Wozniak particularly well, but his injuries had been relatively severe. Nor were all of them physical -- according to Oscar, Chidinma Odili, the only fatality in the second section, had died in his arms; he was rumored to have taken this particularly hard.

"Nothing we can change, anyway," he sighed. "Are you looking forward to your shore leave?"

"I don't know," the dog admitted. "I guess. It'll be nice to be outside without the suit, that's for sure. I don't know anything about the planet, though. Maybe we can hire Mayer as a tour guide."

"Maybe." He looked down at the floor for a second or two. "Look, ah, we should do something, maybe, yeah? Visit one of the beaches, or the waterfront, or something. There's supposed to be a meteor shower over the next few nights... it could be interesting." He shrugged, to make his suggestion seem offhand and spontaneous. "You know, if you don't have anything planned."

Verne smiled. "That sounds nice. I can't really swim or anything, so I don't know about the water, but if you'd like..."

"Doesn't have to be the water," he corrected swiftly. "There are some really nice parks, I hear, west of the city center... some of the oldest trees on the east coast. Mayer was saying it's where people go to relax. But you know, only if you want to."

"I do," she told him. "Just let me know when, okay?"

He nodded his agreement, but before the conversation could progress any further the hatch to Usher's office spun open and Oscar stepped through. He nodded crisply to the pair, and turned back towards the barracks.

Usher's voice barked through the open door. "Corporal Neumann?" Verne and Chris exchanged glances, and then he ducked under the hatch, shutting it behind him.

Alone, Verne felt a slight pang of apprehension. This, she attempted to convince herself, was entirely about the prospective meeting with the lieutenant and had nothing to do with spending time alone with Chris. The conviction was difficult to sustain; a minute later her thoughts had wandered completely away from the narrow corridor.

She had yet to confess to Chris what had happened between her and the dog Forster, and was not entirely certain the best way to tell him -- if, indeed, any confession was appropriate. Nor, conversely, had she spoken to Forster, and the dog admitted that this was not particularly fair to the shepherd either.

In retrospect, calling in the airstrikes had been far more terrifying but also, for perverse reasons, far easier as well. This, she guessed, came down to nerves; she had not had the chance to think, and rational thought could not readily be ascribed to her actions. Now, back in the comparative safety of the Kirishima, she had plenty of time to ponder what she needed to do.

Chris's meeting with the lieutenant didn't take much longer than Oscar's had; the door opened again, and he nodded to her in greeting. She was not, as yet, particularly good at reading people's faces, and she didn't have the chance to ask him directly before Usher summoned her into his office.

"Take a seat. How's it going, private?"

She maneuvered herself carefully into the uncomfortable chair. The back was solid, with no particularly good place for her tail, and she had to shift around a few times. "It's alright, sir."

"Every bit as exciting as you'd hoped for?"

"Every bit, sir," she echoed.

"That's good." He poured a cup of coffee, took a sip, and then made a face at the cup. "You don't drink coffee, do you? No? Smart move, around here." He looked at her, and when she didn't respond -- she had nothing to say about it -- he sighed heavily, and set the mug down. "Mission was kind of a cluster, huh?"

"I got the impression that you knew that going in, sir."

He snorted quietly. "For all the good it did, sure. You know, I talked to Captain Freeman in private... I guess they didn't know as much as I thought. They knew that the separatists were planning an ambush, but they didn't know how strong they were. The plan was for us to draw them into the open, then hit 'em with the heavy weapons and the air support."

"Nobody knew about the nuclear bomb, either?"

"It was a mining charge. Low yield, plus nobody thought they'd be able to weaponize it. I guess it's still not clear what happened -- probably a heavy drone of some kind. The mining unions have had their access to nuclear charges revoked for now -- Jefferson is requiring a government observer for each one. Not that it does us much good now. Eklund said you got burned by it?"

"My ears, yes, sir. The helmet doesn't really cover them all that well. I guess I didn't really think my first combat injury would come from a nuclear blast."

Usher chuckled harshly. "Yeah. Some things just take you by surprise. So, look, I wanted to cover a couple things with you... you and the others, as it happens. We lost pretty much all of the first section and, no offense to Zem, Victor or Dennis but I don't really see them stepping up to take over. I'm promoting Oscar Baldetti and Chris Neumann to sergeant and giving them command of First and Second Squads, respectively. They were both in leadership track roles, and they have a good record. I think they'll manage, don't you?"

"From what I know of them, sir, yes."

"You should try to cultivate a good relationship with the unit leaders. They rely on you a lot. It's helpful if they trust you as a person, and not just as a source of information. I gather that you and Neumann have a pretty good rapport already."

She paused a moment before answering. "Yes, sir."

"Well, I won't pry. In any case he speaks highly of you. He's not the only one. I have a note here from a Lieutenant Commander Gregory Kerr -- VA 182, LCS Roddenberry. Message begins: 'To: Actual, Third Platoon, Bravo Company, 366th Spaceborne Assault Battalion. Subject: Air support of your operations. Dear sir: Your forward air controller is a crazy bastard and one hell of a keen eye. I've never worked with them before, but they seem like they could get a bomb through a basketball hoop. Considering the proximity and size of enemy forces I believe their actions were directly responsible for the successful completion of your mission objectives. Therefore it's your platoon, and you do what you want, but if they don't get a commendation I will..." he paused to scroll to the next part of the message. "Cut your balls off and make you eat them on a saltine. Details on request.' Message ends. I don't know if the details are about the air support or my castration, to be honest."

"I don't know either, sir."

"It seems like you've got a fan, though."

She nodded almost imperceptibly. "The pilots were very helpful."

He laughed. "Yeah? I remember you saying you didn't have any experience in the field. It seems you must be a natural." His gaze sobered quickly, and he leaned forward, putting his hands together. "He's right, though. I think I could've had McArdle or Haruki try to call the strikes in -- but I didn't have to. You did pretty good out there, private."

Her ears perked up. "Thank you, sir."

"I know you don't really care too much -- at least, you don't seem like you would -- but I put you for a Silver Star. I've had Freeman and Cho countersign it. You would be the second from that engagement -- the other is posthumous, from what I understand."

Verne blinked; now her ears drew back a few degrees. "I wasn't really... I was just doing what needed to be done, sir."

Usher smiled gently. "I know. But 'doing what needed to be done' meant you came through for us when it really mattered, private, and a lot of us owe you for that. Me included, I'm sure. I won't insist on a ceremony or anything."

"Thank you, sir." Her voice was quiet; she was still trying to process it all.

"Of course. Now as for the second part, your position is the platoon is specified as an E5, if I'm not mistaken. How did you get in as a PFC?"

"Good vocationals, mostly, sir. Also, you had an opening and there weren't any qualified applicants interested in this sector."

"You were?"

She shrugged. "I was interested in a job, at least."

"Fair enough. I've got some freedom to move people around, do some promotions and all that kind of stuff -- while we're waiting for fresh meat. Have you already taken your placements for specialist?"

"Yes, sir. I just haven't sent in the paperwork yet, or the payment."

"Good, good." He leaned back, as was his custom, grey eyes wandering over the room behind her. "While you're down on the surface, why don't you go ahead and take the E5 placement, too? It shouldn't be anything too difficult. I want to rationalize the platoon hierarchy while I have the chance, you know?"

"Uh... Do you want me to submit my specialist paperwork?"

He waved his hand dismissively. "Nah. Probably best to skip it at this point. It doesn't always look good to mix combat promotions and purchased ones. I'll sign a waiver on the in-person course if you can get the tests done after we put down tomorrow. That sound alright to you?"

Nodding, a little stunned, she said that it was. "Can I ask... why?"

"Like I said, I might as well take the opportunity to get the platoon all in order. But... mostly it's because I want people to know that you ought to be respected. I haven't seen your tactical skills in action, so maybe you don't have those, but you've got an excellent grasp on signals -- probably the best I've seen. I want the squad leaders to know they need to listen to you when you see something."

"Yes, sir," she breathed.

"And I want you to keep seeing things. Jesus. Like that minefield? That wasn't just reading the set, that was something else. Everybody should have C&S support like that... it'd save a lot of lives." Saying this seemed to abruptly remind the man of the casualties they had suffered; he winced as if struck, and shook his head quickly to clear the thought. "You have plans for the surface, private?"

"No, sir. Not yet."

"You have any hobbies?" He was starting to go to work on a thin computer, tapping at it quickly.

Julie had spent most of her life without sufficient freedom to acquire any pastimes of note; beyond some light reading, and the occasional game of Go, she spent most of her day at work in some fashion or another. "Sort of," she tried.

Usher rolled his eyes, putting the computer aside. "Right. Okay, here's another order for you, then. I want you to spend at least some of your time down there relaxing. If I find out from one of the other guys that you had your nose buried in a technical manual or something like that, there'll be hell to pay. Get yourself a hobby. You understand that, private?"

"Yes, sir."

"There's a whole big world out there. The problem with tunnel vision in life, private, is you don't know where -- or when -- the tunnel's going to end. I'm sure the intrepid men and women of Third Platoon are working on having something to do already. Tag along." He favored her with a fatherly smile, and then turned back to his computer. "Alright; you're dismissed."

*

The lighter from the Kirishima landed just as the dawn was beginning to thread its way into the eastern sky, and getting paperwork processed for the temporary transfer to Joseph P. McConnell Air Station took several hours; by the time they were free to leave, full sunlight was beaming down on them. Verne turned her muzzle up towards it, squinting. It had been several months since she had properly had the chance to appreciate the feeling of warmth on her bare fur.

"So what now?"

Usher and McArdle were nowhere to be found, and Fran Horvat and her aircrew had excused themselves -- claiming, cryptically, that they wanted to "have some fun with the air wing." Their own Strix was still docked to the Kirishima, and Verne suspected that Horvat intended to borrow one of the base's ships -- for 'training purposes' in the picturesque valleys to the city's north, no doubt.

Their absence left about a dozen soldiers standing around. Mayer Bourne, who was temporarily using a cane while his injuries healed, had asked the first question; when nobody else volunteered any suggestions, Hiroshi Haruki spoke up.

"Thought we could hit up the harbor; maybe get some lunch and a few beers? Enjoy the early afternoon without anybody trying to kill us? Sound good?"

The sightseeing was a secondary concern -- but the prospect of alcohol seemed to motivate them, and there were a few calls of agreement. Oscar Baldetti proposed obtaining tickets to a baseball game that afternoon, which also netted some support, but seizing the initiative took precedence over careful planning, and ten minutes later they found themselves crammed into a rickety old hoverdyne that rocked badly in the turns.

The driver spoke only Jeffersonian, a dialect of English that the dog found generally incomprehensible. This left Mayer to negotiate their route, and he vaulted over the front bench seat to join the driver, gesticulating heatedly at every passing street.

They had entered on one of the main thoroughfares, and Verne considered at first that New Philadelphia, to Bourne's credit, was much as he'd described it earlier -- broad, tree-lined streets with sidewalks framed in polished marble. Even the alleyways their hoverdyne lurched past seemed orderly and neat. It was, in many ways, a more stately, warmer version of the sterile Silicon Valley Free Zone Verne had long called home.

Their plans took them to the city harbor; the buildings began to look older and more worn, and the traffic seemed more like their own rickety, rusty vehicle. But even still, as they skimmed over worn and narrowing streets, the city revealed itself in self-assured elegance, with dark green ivy framing the old stone of the buildings to either side.

Mayer's preferred haunt was a seafood restaurant at the start of a long wooden pier. Verne's sensitive nose filled with the scent of fish -- strong enough that she felt certain the others could smell it. If they noticed, though, nobody seemed to mind; it was part of the organic appeal of the place, so distant from the clinical walls of the starship they normally called home.

"We have a reservation for thirteen," Oscar told the host, who was eyeing the crowd -- still in uniform -- with some apprehension. "Thirteen," he repeated, for emphasis.

The other man remained unconvinced. "Ah... Thehr-teen," he echoed. "Ent, uh... your, um... the kaneedje?"

"What?"

"Yo, yo, dah kaneed ees ehksu vehk os. Dørleehan," Mayer interjected brusquely. "Vee ehr dertjen man euhxad." He made a sweeping gesture to indicate the group.

"Ees zeer en bleendman kehnsint?" The Jeffersonian seemed more perplexed than anything else, and despite the curtness of Mayer's voice took him as something of an ally.

"Yo, en bleendman, ehburenhan," he shot back, gesturing at the server. "Yai veel heulbe, okay?" He scowled fiercely, tapping his namebadge for emphasis. "Vee ehr vekh dah Colonial Defense Authority -- ent dah kaneed ehksu -- ent zu heb fra dah SOFA elles zeer ehkvehan reegta lehkzu en keeteejen. Zu, heste jød na en daple dertjen vur, ørte meht yai dah poleetza snehk vur en klarasher euhxabelleng?"

Chagrinned by the heat behind Bourne's words, the host swallowed nervously, and then led them to an outside table that overlooked the water. He left their menus and ducked away hastily. "What was that about?" Oscar asked. "I don't speak your language."

"Private Verne confused him. He wanted to know if there was a blind man in the party."

Verne's ears drooped. "What did you tell him?"

"I said the only blind man was him, and if he wasn't going to get us a table I was gonna call the cops. Jesus, people sometimes." Mayer scoffed, and flipped open a menu without further ceremony. "Everybody okay to start with kebbek and some fresh tsauerbrüd?"

Kebbek turned out to be pieces of fish 'cooked,' so near as the dog could tell, in a lemon marinade. She poked at it uncertainly with her fork before taking a cautious bite; the taste was crisp, and the smell of citrus and fresh seafood filled her muzzle.

Julie had not often eaten well-prepared food; in the corporate barracks as a civilian she had mostly dined on the kibble Forster claimed consisted mostly of "ground up bits of dead rats and lost housepets." Maybe that was true; certainly, it had not been so flavorful as the Jeffersonian kebbek. She took another bite, and by the time the main course arrived she found herself thoroughly enjoying the experience.

She was quite certain that they were being watched, so she ate self-consciously -- in the platoon barracks she had acquired a habit of drinking most of the mulligatawny broth and then lapping up the bits of chicken that remained, but this abject lack of decorum seemed likely to draw the ire of the other patrons. Now Julie approached the cod Mayer Bourne had ordered for her with the studious, deadly seriousness she ordinarily reserved for minefields -- prodding at the flaky meat until it separated, and she could curl her long tongue around the fork to draw it into her mouth.

The utensils had not really been designed for her anatomy, but she made the best use of them she could, and tried to focus on the meal rather than the eyes she imagined boring into her. All the same, when one of the other patrons left his table to walk over to them she flattened her ears and put the silverware down.

He was an old man -- slow, with dull grey hair that seemed to give the impression that his head was gathering dust. He did not approach Verne -- choosing instead the opposite end of the table, where Enzo Eklund was busy demolishing a hapless steak.

"Do you speak Rövanenglesh?" he asked, slowly.

Eklund shook his head. "No. Not much."

"You're soldiers?"

"Yes," Eklund said. "That we are."

"I used to be a soldier," the old man pronounced. "Many years ago, when my English was better." He said this slowly, almost wistfully -- although his accent was not particularly thick. It was not, Verne had to be honest, much worse than her own.

"Were you?"

"Garuda, in the 5th Mechanized. I fought in the Caspar Hills, and in the Eighty Days Campaign." As he continued to speak, his voice strengthened, like he was becoming more sure of himself.

Eklund, who seemed more interested in his steak, nodded. "You must've seen a lot of action."

"Enough," the old man said. "Enough to know what you're doing. It's so dangerous now -- every day I hear about another gun battle, or an assassination... yesterday somebody blew up a cargo ship..." He shook his head sadly. "I'm old, now, I... I don't have an adventurer's spirit. I just want to enjoy these long summer afternoons. I don't want to have to worry about whether my transport will make it in safely, or... whether my son out in Matanuska will be able to stay in business with everybody fleeing the city. You men and women... you keep us safe. You do, don't you?"

Eklund set down his fork. "We try..."

"I wish I could fight alongside you and your men. I... I'd like to shake your hand, sir. We owe you that much -- much more, really. I -- I'd like to shake your hand, and... and buy you and your men a drink, if you'll have it."

He glanced around uncertainly. "I... uh..."

"The handshake, well... sure, of course," Mayer Bourne spoke up. "As for the drink... one round, but only if you and your friend over there join in."

The old man's eyes lit up, and he turned. "Callum -- Callum, get over here. Bring your chair." While his partner grumbled and got to his feet, their guest made his circuit around the table, shaking everyone's hand firmly. He paused, curiously, when he got to Verne -- but his eyes fell to the insignia patch on her shoulder, and he held out his hand. When she took it, his grasp was warm, and friendly.

"Hope Luke hasn't been bothering you," Callum said. "He always bothers soldiers -- almost could think he wishes he'd married one. Not that I'm jealous..."

"Of course not, dear," Luke answered, and -- having circled the table -- joined Callum, with the both of them squeezed in between Makkai Egyed and Zemzem Selam, who was regarding them and their interruption rather skeptically. Luke ordered two pitchers of beers; when the waiter had poured the glasses full, he lifted his glass, his lined face cracking in a smile. "To the... what's your unit, sergeant?"

"The 366th," Mayer told him.

"To the heroes of the 366th," Luke declared. "May god bless every last one of you."

Verne took a careful half-sip of the beer -- she was still wary of alcohol on general principle -- and listened as Luke regaled an increasingly hapless Mayer and Enzo of his adventures in the Caspar Hills rebellion. Julie had no idea what the fighting had actually entailed -- only that it involved, apparently, great feats of heroism and excitement.

Was that how she would look on their actions, fifty years hence? Mostly, the dog still found the entire concept overwhelming -- nothing about their most recent battle had really hit home for her yet. The debriefing, the quiet discussions in the unit barracks, and Usher telling her he thought she should be commended blurred together without form or import.

Nor was she comfortable thinking of herself as especially heroic. But the considered opinion of the other soldiers seemed to be that it was worth indulging the old couple, for the sake of free drinks if nothing else. But the two politely excused themselves, after Mayer ordered the second round, and the platoon sipped at their cool beers in renewed silence.

"What does anybody want to do next?"

Oscar looked around. "We still on for the ballgame? The stadium's about two and a half kilometers from here, if I remember the map right."

"Yeah, if they're playing at the new one," Mayer said. "But it runs through Marion Park, right along the river. It's a nice walk; we could take our time."

"Everybody down for that, then?"

Zemzem Selam distractedly tapped her fingers on the edge of her beer. "It's also couples' night at the East Aquila State Orchestra. Two for one tickets, if anybody's interested." Nobody seemed to be; Selam looked around expectantly, her gaze taking on an accusing glare. "Nobody?"

Julie was mindful of her promise to Usher that she would find something recreational to occupy her time, and decided that whatever the symphony entailed music was at least likely to be more portable than a baseball bat. This at least was something she could use back on the ship. "I'm in."

Selam's eyes narrowed at the dog. "Really?"

Her ears flicked back. "Sure?"

It wasn't the outcome Selam seemed to have wanted, but she didn't say anything further, and when the bill was settled the groups prepared to go their separate ways. Standing alone next to Julie outside the restaurant, with the sun slowly falling into the hills to their west, Zemzem reached into the pocket of her slacks to retrieve a small paper box. She rapped it, hard, against her palm, looking at the dog skeptically. "You like the symphony?"

"I've never really listened to music before," Julie admitted. "But I'm curious to see what it's like."

Selam grunted. "Really," she said flatly, pulling forth a cigarette and a battered, dinged metal lighter. As the lighter's flame ebbed into a bright red glow at the tip of the cigarette, the woman took a long drag, exhaling smoke with a pleasure-filled sigh. "Fuckin' bullshit about the oxygen regulators on ship," she muttered, and then sighed again, returning her attention to Julie. "You might be disappointed, you know. It's Sofia Kuhn leading the orchestra."

Verne shifted carefully to stand away from the path of the smoke, and then shrugged. "That doesn't really mean anything to me. I don't know directors."

"Conductors," Zemzem corrected. She took a slower drag, staring contemplatively at the burning point of her cigarette. "I saw Kuhn conducting the Neue Koblenz Symphony at the Prochnow Amphitheater, 'bout three years ago." She pursed her lips, so that her breath roiled patterns in the smoke. "Antonin Dvorak's Opus 95."

"But it wasn't any good?"

Zemzem scoffed derisively, making a face like she'd eaten something unpleasant. "Well, you know the piece? Symphony Number Nine in E Minor? No? Well, good, because that fuckin' cunt conducted From the New World like a cheerleader giving the football captain a blowjob. All the right motions, not one fucking bit of soul." The memory made Zemzem so angry that she had to return to the cigarette for comfort.

"I see," Verne said, although the colorful metaphor was not especially illuminating.

"I'm just saying, if I'm gonna suck somebody off, I'm putting my heart into it. You would too, right?" Julie gestured noncommittally. "Sure you would. Kuhn doesn't get into it, and it really shows. At least, it did at Koblenz. I'm willing to give her another shot -- got good material, anyway."

"What are they playing?"

"Marek Vrba's Helios overture, and then Scheherazade. Which, if you haven't heard that before, that fucker's intense. You got anything nice to wear?"

The dog looked down; she was wearing her service clothes, which were well-kept but not particularly formal. "No."

Nor was it easy for Verne to imagine the acerbic, wiry Selam in anything other than a uniform of some kind. Fortunately she was not required to: "Yeah, me either. I don't really go for necklaces and high heels. But you know what else don't?"

"No?"

Selam grinned; something in the fierceness of it made her canines seem very nearly sharper than Julie's own. "Money. So what do you say, dog?" Selam stubbed out what remained of her cigarette forcefully. "Shall we?"

The concert hall was located far enough away that Selam recommended hailing a cab. The driver spoke only broken English, which had reduced the woman to profanity by the time they finally pulled to a halt in front of the symphony -- but the sight of the building, at long last, seemed to dull the acidity of her mood.

The imposing steel and marble edifice proclaimed the date of its construction to be more than a century prior, and the dog felt acutely aware of how out of place the two looked. At the door, a man in a trim black suit that fit him like a second skin looked between them skeptically. He stammered at them in Jeffersonian, and when Selam cut him off he tried again in clear, if accented, English:

"You are a couple?"

"Yeah?" Selam's voice was sharp. "What's it to you?"

The doorman looked over them again, his eyes lingering on their uniforms, and the dog's pricked ears. "Are you... certain?"

"What are you, a fucking relationship counselor?" She leaned forward, eyes narrowing, and the man shrunk back nervously.

"S-section four," he said, pushing the tickets hastily into her hand. "Enjoy the performance."

Selam took them, scoffing, and stepped past the tall glass doors. Verne followed her into a room that seemed to be from another age -- polished columns and grand staircases that wound up to dizzying heights. It reminded her of the first time that she had seen the starship Kirishima -- a startling realization that human hands and ingenuity had crafted something so massive and elegant.

The chairs, covered in soft red velvet, had not been designed for her short, rather unique frame; when she tried sitting in them normally she could see nothing but the back of the chair in front of her. Instead she crouched on her knees, which afforded her a better view and let her curl her tail around her legs.

Then she turned to the woman next to her, but Selam's appetite for smalltalk -- which had never been particularly pronounced -- had vanished entirely inside the hall. Ignoring Julie, she stared at the program fixedly, paging through the screens to read the biographies of the performers with occasional muttered oaths that Verne took to be complimentary.

Julie, by contrast, chose to lean forward -- watching as the orchestra filed into their seats one by one. Most of the things they carried were starkly alien -- great wooden bulks with long necks, and tall dark instruments with diminutive mouthpieces that curled like a question mark, and twisted brass contraptions very nearly as large as she was. Only the percussion section looked familiar, and only because she had once known a dog who played the marimba.

Then the lights dimmed, and she felt her ears perk expectantly, head tilted slightly to one side. The conductor's hand came up, and when it dropped again, into the wavering clarinets of Vrba's famous symphony, her sensitive ears flicked to every note.

Vrba had written it, according to the program, to honor the launch of the first interstellar vessel, centuries before. By the second movement Julie was completely caught up in the story the instruments told -- she could almost see, when she closed her eyes, the ascent of a great rocket-ship, angular nose pointed towards the stars, and unseen worlds lightyears beyond...

There was a great, aching emptiness when the final notes died away; she applauded politely, but the dog was waiting -- tailtip twitching like a stalking cat's, whiskers quivering. An overwhelming, heavy silence descended, and just when she thought she would not be able to bear the anticipation any longer the dark, rich notes of Rimsky-Korsakov filled the concert hall, and she felt them resonating deep within her, as though her soul had abruptly startled to life.

She let herself be borne upwards on the rising notes of the violins, holding her breath when the music quieted; letting it out in a grateful rush, her folded ears pricked to full alertness when it resumed. There were times when the music seemed itself to be a living thing, calling out to her, and the steady pulse of the symphony was as sure as the beating of her own heart.

With keen, focused eyes she watched the musicians, associating the sounds of each section with the notes wove together to build the narrative, as alluring, complex and solid as any piece of architecture -- but more fluid, and more captivating. She had been bred to find patterns in chaos, and in the darkness those patterns sung to her aloud. The universe was no larger than the room, and the sound that completed it, and in the moment Julie felt alive, more aware of the world than she had ever been.

The fourth movement rose into a gripping conversation of rhythm and music; she clung to every word of it, hoping it might go on forever. But it faded, at last, into piping high notes that tickled the dog's ears, and when the final echoes had died away she stood with the rest of them, applauding giddily, aware that the fur of her paws was deadening the fervor of her appreciation.

"What did you think?" Selam asked, when they were back inside a taxi, inching through hoverdyne traffic back towards the airbase.

It was a rhetorical question -- the dog was still tense, eyes bright and tongue half-lolling with the grin etched into her muzzle; every time she thought of the music her tail wagged helplessly. "It was amazing," she managed, simply. "Just... beyond anything..."

"You liked it?"

"I've never really heard music before. I mean... marches, sure. Or the popular stuff you hear when you're out in the shops or whatever. But this... it was something completely different, something --"

"Tone it down a little," Selam told her. "If I wanted to see a dog come, I'd call it."

"What?"

She shook her head. "Never mind. Yeah, it was better than I expected. Bitch knows how to handle bassoons -- best treatment of Vrba I've heard live. But wait until you hear Mahler. When I first deployed to the rim, it was the last year that Szalay Aurelia-Rez was conducting the Lydian Philharmonic. Mahler's Symphony Number One -- god, I swear, if I could ask one piece of music to fuck me..."

Julie blinked. "I see."

"Have you heard any Mahler? Or Holst? Copland? Prokofiev? Sibelius? Adams? Bartok?" As she rattled off the names, Selam regarded Verne's flattened ears with an increasing look of what might have been horror. "Berlioz? Handel? Beethoven, for fuck's sake? Do you know who Beethoven was?"

"I've heard the name..."

"God damn it, dog. How do you not know Beethoven?"

Verne couldn't be sure how much of the anger was theatric; the woman's rage was calibrated to a rather less reserved setting than most, and her hands had now bunched into fists. Julie tucked her ears back further. "Wasn't he the ruler of --"

"Music?" Selam cut her off, her eyes like daggers. "Were you going to ask if he was the ruler of all music, everywhere?" She took a deep breath. "Jesus fuck, what's wrong with the universe? Fine. When we get back, we're going to the base exchange and buying you a music player. You're going to let me find a good one for you, and then I'm going to let you copy my library."

"Oh!"

"Well, it's important for you to be more independent. I can't very well take you to every fucking concert, after all." Selam frowned thoughtfully, and her voice became softer, as though she was passing on a secret. "Thanks for coming with me, by the way," she muttered.

"Thank you for letting me."

Zem settled back into the stained fabric of the taxi's bench seat. "It's just because you're the only one with enough sense to want to appreciate music around here."

"I see," Verne said.

"It's not because I like you."

"No."

"We're not friends, or anything."

"Of course." Julie had no desire to press the issue. Selam folded her dark arms, looking remarkably peaceful, and the two lapsed into silence. A minute passed; the driver of the taxi turned around in his seat inquisitively. Selam narrowed her eyes to fix him in her trademark burning stare:

"What are you lookin' at?"

*

True to her word, Selam rose early the next morning to drag Verne to the electronics section of the base exchange. The dog was not given a chance to protest -- nor was she given the opportunity to pore over the selection, for Selam confidently handed her one of the boxes there and instructed her to pay for it.

In their temporary barracks, Verne experimented with the earpieces until she could fix them more or less comfortably into place. They used the same noise-canceling technology as her C&S equipment did, although more precise, and when she found the control to turn them on her ears filled with the rich sound of music, so faithfully reproduced that, if she closed her eyes, she might almost have been back in the concert hall.

To the accompaniment of Beethoven's later symphonies she diligently worked through the examination designed to prove her worth as a prospective sergeant. The questions were not terribly difficult -- issues of protocol that she could answer from the texts she'd read out of boredom, mixed with "real-world" scenarios that she tried to address with her limited experience.

By late afternoon the tests were all completed; she handed the computer over to Usher, who took it with a grin, and then padded off in search of something else to do. Chris was just returning from what appeared to be a game of tennis; his body was dappled with drops of sweat, and his hair was dark with it. He waved to her; the racket gripped in his hand gave the impression of excited semaphore. "Hey, pup."

"Hi!"

He tossed the racket onto his bunk. "Sorry I'm a mess. Victor wanted to burn off some nervous energy, I think. What have you been up to?"

"It's alright, I don't mind," she said. "And it's been a quiet morning. Just taking care of some paperwork, mostly."

"Yeah?" He was rummaging through his belongings, looking for fresh clothes. "What are you doing this evening?"

She shook her head. "Nothing much, probably."

"You want to go for a walk, maybe? It's been awhile since I've been outside -- well, that I've been outside and I could enjoy it, anyway. I could really go for a sunset -- Mayer says that Columbia Park is pretty, and it's three stops down on the maglev."

"That sounds nice," she told him. "When do you want to leave?"

He turned a t-shirt over in his hands, examining it for stains. "Let me take a shower first?"

Half an hour later, they left together for the train, and immersed themselves in a throng of fellow passengers. She was, she found, getting used to the stares and the furtive glances cast her way; it was easy to ignore them, clutching the railing for leverage and focusing on the trees and buildings sweeping past to either side.

Columbia Park was inside the city limits of New Philadelphia, although there was no development to its west. They were the only ones to disembark at the station; the park entrance, below a tall statue of a man named George Washington, was quiet and solemn. Before them, old trees flanked either side of a dirt path, their branches spread as if they were holding up a sky that glowed with the anticipation of evening.

Dry earth crunched comfortably beneath her boots as they strolled, until finally she bent down to take them off, intertwining the laces and slinging them over her shoulder. The ground was warm beneath her feet; her toes splayed into the dust. Chris chuckled, a few steps later, and pointed to the prints she had left behind -- a sudden metamorphosis where the heavy treadmarks gave abrupt way to the soft imprint of her paws.

"That was when the full moon came out," Verne suggested, and he laughed again.

"I kind of hope somebody sees those, just so they can wonder."

They followed the path up and into low hills as it grew less and less well-trod. Then it was nothing but a game trail through thickening woods. The tree-trunks darkened by the degrees as the light that filtered down became less intense. A sky that had seemed soft and inviting now only served to make the darkness of the forest floor ominous and chill by comparison.

Something about it -- the claustrophobic tightness, or the limited visibility, or the sounds of hidden wildlife -- bothered her. She was growing agitated, feeling her breath catch. The further they walked, the narrower the trail became, until the rough-barked limbs closed in and they had to proceed in single file.

Her ears were low, and her tail was tucked; her gait was more cautious, and her eyes swept the dark woods around them constantly. She swallowed, starting to pant; Chris didn't seem to notice, or he chalked it up to exertion. She caught the sound of a cracking branch, a few hundred meters away, and gripped reflexively for the C&S computer at her forearm. But it wasn't there, of course; she recoiled at its absence.

It was taking an effort not to panic -- knowing, rationally, that there was nothing to be afraid of. It's just your nerves, Runshana, she tried to remind herself. But if she shut her eyes, she could hear voices -- hushed conversations and whispered orders. Men, all around them, closing in. When she opened her eyes the sounds receded -- replaced by the specter of the dark trees reaching out like bony fingers. She was not certain which was worse -- then she shut her eyes again, and a low-hanging branch snagged her arm. She let out a yelp of terror.

Chris spun around, alarmed. "What? What's going --"

"Get down!" she cried, in a panicked rush. She was panting quickly, near to hyperventilation. He turned, glancing around them to either side. Her outburst seemed to have put the voices at bay; she could no longer hear them. Julie swallowed thickly. "I think they're setting us up for an ambush," she whispered.

"Jules," Chris said; he took her by the arm, and she realized for the first time how badly she was shaking. "Jules -- pup -- it's okay." His voice was remarkably calm, although he still looked startled by her outburst.

"It's not..." Her voice sounded haunted; alien to her in its desperation. "They're out there..."

"There's nobody here," he told her soothingly. Carefully, he put his other arm around her, pulling Verne closer as her body tensed to run from unseen foes. "Calm down..."

"I could hear them," she insisted, though her voice was starting to waver.

"I know," he murmured. "But there's nobody out there. We're in the middle of civilian territory..." He tightened the hold of his arm behind her. "In a park..." He let her wrist go, putting his other arm around the trembling dog. "By ourselves..." Julie's resistance ebbed, and she leaned heavily against him. "We're safe, pup."

Teeth chattering, she took a few deep breaths to calm herself. She tried to ignore everything but the warm feeling of his hold on her and the nearness of his chest. "I would really like to leave the woods..." Her voice was muffled against his body.

"Okay," he said gently. His hands were starting to stroke her arms comfortingly, smoothing down the fur. "Okay, we can do that." Keeping her close with one arm, he brought out his communicator with the other; she could see maps flicking across the screen from the corner of her eye. "If we keep walking about two hundred meters, we'll come to a junction, and there's a clearing on the trail to the right. Can you do that, pup?"

"Yeah," she managed, nodding weakly. "Yeah, I can."

Chris smiled reassuringly, and took her by the paw, leading her up the path. Even the sound of twigs beneath her feet made her cringe, but every time she flinched, he squeezed her paw tighter and she forced herself to keep walking. He had said two hundred meters, and she counted every step as they picked their way through the dense woods to a well-trod dirt path, just as he'd promised.

The trees had been meant to provide shade from the burning summer sun. They were well-tended, forming a protective arch over the trail, and all Verne could think about was how trapped she felt. Now that she could walk next to him, she practically clung to Chris, and forced herself to focus on the way before them, and the green grass of a clearing warmed golden by the coming sunset.

In the open, at least, she could breathe again, although it took an effort. Chris led her to the bank of a shallow pond, empty but for a group of ducks swimming in idle laps, and when the two sat down she leaned against him heavily. "I'm sorry..."

He let his arm rest on her shoulder, keeping her in place. "You don't have anything to be sorry about."

Julie turned, hazarding a glance back the way they'd came, to the edge of the forest. "I was just... I could've sworn I heard something..." And even now, the shadows in the darkness seemed to shift and flicker as though the trees concealed a lurking evil. "I was so sure of it..."

"We're safe here, though," Chris reminded her.

"I... I know that," she said. "I mean. I know I'm supposed to know that, at least, but it doesn't feel that way. People saying you're going to be safe doesn't necessarily mean anything."

"You're thinking about the mission?"

"Yeah," the dog told him softly -- because she was afraid to admit that the truth was that she was thinking about deeper fears. That she might see every stranger as a potential threat; that she might never again be able to look innocently at a forest or a city street -- that she might be condemned to search for waiting death in every shadow, forever. "They weren't much further away than those trees were."

More than anything, she wanted to close her eyes and hear music -- echoes of the concert from the day before, perhaps, or more Beethoven. But when she tried, apprehensively, she could hear the voices again -- murmurs, and distant, wordless shouts, and the muffled hint of gunfire. She shivered, and a moment later felt Chris grip her more tightly. "Jules?"

"How do you deal with people not understanding you?"

"What do you mean?"

She opened her eyes again. The ducks in the pond had come closer, hoping for a handout. How wondrously simple would that life be? Water, and warm sun, and the belief that every one walking past might have food to share... Julie sighed. "Your friends, or your family, or... just people you meet. The hardest thing was that old couple, in the restaurant yesterday, calling us heroes..."

"You don't feel that way?"

"Do you?"

Chris gave her a squeeze, shaking his head. "No."

"The last airstrike I called in, the Uniform Data Link stopped working. I didn't have time to try to fix it -- they were getting in too close."

"What did you do? I couldn't see."

"I got my laser designator out. And I got up to where I could see them, and spotted them directly and called the Intruders in on that."

His eyes widened briefly. "That took courage, pup."

"No. I didn't even think, before I did it -- I just scrambled up out of where we'd been taking cover and before I knew it I was turning the laser on. And... and once I was up there I was... I was terrified," she admitted, in a haunted whisper. "There was so much noise, and the bullets were so close..."

"Well, they were right up against us," Chris reminded her. "It wasn't even all the way from here to the treeline, was it? Half that, maybe.

"Could you see them?"

"No. Not well, anyway."

Julie looked back towards the trees, searching. "Yeah. Closer. I saw one guy, out in the open... when the Intruders started firing the flechettes it was like he... he just disintegrated, right in front of me. Then they tried to run, but..." Her breath was starting to become shaky again. "They couldn't... not in time."

"Right."

"When the strafing run was finished I got back into cover as quickly as I could. But I could hear them... people... crying out in pain. I couldn't understand what they were saying, but that... it almost made it worse. Because... I did that, didn't I?"

"Right," he said again. His hand ruffled the fur of her upper arm comfortingly.

"That's all I can think about when they... when people talk about heroism. Or when I hear on the news about how we're here to save this continent... All I can think about is being curled up in a ball, listening to the people I killed suffer. Do you suppose that's what I'm hearing? Or... or when you go to sleep, and you can't get it out of your dreams? Spirits?"

Chris took a deep breath, and sought out her paw to give it a squeeze. "I don't know. I don't like thinking about it. If I had to be honest with myself? If I had to ask myself whether I thought that everyone I'd killed really deserved it? I don't think I could make myself believe that lie. I'd want to, yes. I'd really, really want to, but I don't think I could."

"Then what do you do?"

"What do you mean?"

"How do you come to terms with it?" Now the dog was starting to feel guilty about her desire to banish the voices -- as though it meant shirking her responsibility somehow. "Is it okay to keep going? I went to this concert yesterday, with Zem... it was just... it was gorgeous, the most beautiful thing I've ever heard. Maybe I was the happiest I've ever been... I'm not sure I deserved that. So what I am supposed to think?"

He shrugged, and for a time he was quiet -- opening his mouth a few times as if to speak but never making it all the way. He let her paw go, and scrabbled a small stone from the dirt next to them. The family of ducks was on the far side of the pond; the water near the two of them was flat, showing the orange sky above like glass. Chris tossed the stone -- the splash was the only thing to break the silence, and they watched the waves spread, and fade. "I don't know," Chris finally told her.

"You don't?"

"Well. I know what I do, but it's a bad answer."

"What?"

He tossed in another rock; the ripples fought, and she tried to make sense of their evolution -- the way that stillness and chaos met at some arbitrary medium. "I guess we're going to die," Chris told her; at first she thought it was a non sequitur. "Everything we do is gonna come back to us in the end, right? So just do the best you can, and you take advantage of every damn opportunity you have, 'cause you don't know when it's coming back. I mean... I could go to the war memorial, or confess my sins to some preacher. Maybe that would be better for me? Like, spiritually and all? But I'd rather play tennis, or get a drink with my mates, or just sit here and enjoy the sunset -- 'cause if I wanted misery, pup? It's just on the next drop. I'm not going to feel guilty about happiness -- hell, it's our job to get as much of that as we can while have the chance. If there's a heaven, or a hell, nobody's gonna show up at the door wishing they'd had fewer good moments on earth. You really liked that concert?"

She nodded, her head rubbing against his shoulder. "Never heard anything like it."

"That's good. You need that. It doesn't make you a bad person to be able to find some bit of joy in this whole fucking mess. I think for me... You know what it is for me? You can't forget things. You can't forget what you're doing -- you can't ever think it's easy, or guiltless. But you can't forget that... out in the universe, there's some amazing stuff, and nothing can ever take away your right to enjoy it."

Julie thought about that for a spell; then, smiling weakly, she turned to give Chris's cheek a nuzzle, and then a gentle lick. "Thank you."

"It helped?"

"Yeah."

"Then you're welcome," he said, and hugged her again.

It was, she thought, as if a great weight had been lifted from her shoulders -- at least, for the time being. Wrapped up in his arms, she lay against him, and together they watched the sky darken in the reflection of the pond. The light had nearly gone when they saw the headlights of a small maintenance vehicle making its way up the dirt track. Chris got up, stretching his long limbs, and held out his hand to flag the vehicle down.

"Eunskølhan, kehnsint snekhe jød Tijerran-englesh?"

The old man in the truck, whose grass-stained overalls suggested him to be a groundskeeper, scratched behind his ear slowly. "Little."

"What time does the park close?"

"Sun... sundown? Between hour twenty-one and twenty-two, today."

"Already?"

"Ah, yo, yo. Already closed."

Chris frowned. "Do you know where we could watch the Camerids? The Camerid meteor shower?" When this didn't get a response, he pantomimed the quick path of a falling star. "Camerids?"

"Ah, Kamreet? So you are skywatchman, then -- very good. Kamreet... hmm. Ek-ek-ek-ek-ek," he muttered to himself, thinking. "Go from here to the mountains. You get maybe a... a... a jüteh for this? Ehm..." He patted the control panel of his vehicle. "Jüteh?"

"Auto?" Verne suggested.

"Yo-okay, auto, euhxadhan. It is only one hour away."

"Anywhere closer?" Chris asked. "We're not allowed to go very far."

"Not allowed? Prison?"

Chris chuckled. "Kind of? We're from CODA."

"Warriors?"

"Yeah, I guess you could say. Normally we live on one of those..." Chris pointed upwards, to where orbiting starships moved like slow diamonds, still catching the sun's light. "We're visiting."

The groundskeeper grinned. "Are you the... the... ah, shit. Valkenkriger? I don't think that is your name; just what we call it. Because the space-warriors, you are like a valken, circling and circling and then! Ha!" He brought his hand down swiftly onto the dashboard of his truck, making a sound that Verne supposed was meant to replicate a Strix's engine. "That's you?"

Chris and Julie exchanged glances. "That's us," he confirmed.

"Ah, well... hmm. Ek-ek-ek-ek... yo, okay. You should stay here, then. It will be quiet, dark... you'll see many of them. Very pretty."

"That won't be a problem?"

"Not for me. Park is closed; nobody else comes in. You can just enjoy. Except, it will become cold at night... You..." He pointed at Verne. "You are the smart one. Come with a fur coat built in. Us, we do not have luck as this. Oh!" He opened the door of his truck and stepped onto the dirt path, scuffling around to the cargo hold. A moment later, he hauled out a rolled up blanket. "This will do, maybe? I have it for if people accidentally fall into the river. Very cold, that -- don't do it. But for tonight, it will keep this one warm," he looked at Verne, nodding to indicate Chris in a conspiratorial fashion. "Until he gets a proper coat like you."

"Thanks," Chris said, taking the heavy bundle. "I really appreciate it."

Pulling himself back into the truck, the groundskeeper shook his head. "No, you have no worries. Only bring it to the main office when you leave. Enjoy the sky," he said, starting the engine and letting the truck inch forward so they knew to back away from it. "And next time you're fighting out west, shoot one of the bastards for me."

Chris blinked, shaking his head, and when the truck moved away they returned to the edge of the pond. He spread the big blanket on the ground and settled down on it carefully, making room for the dog to join him. She snuggled up to his side, keeping close so that he had room to pull the blanket over them both.

"You know," Chris finally said. "He was right."

"Hmm?"

"You don't really need a blanket, do you? You're very warm."

"Oh. Sorry."

He laughed, shaking his head and sliding his arm underneath her to pull the dog up against his side. "I wasn't complaining."

Julie settled down, resting her muzzle on him with a contented sigh. "Oh, good." Her tail was wagging, she knew; she couldn't really help it. The solid warmth of the man's body held her like an anchor; there, beneath the blanket, peering up into the timeless jewels of the universe, she was filled with intoxicating happiness.

He pointed out the first few meteors, as they wrote their endings in glorious streaks through the darkening sky. "Some people," he told her, "say you can make a wish on a shooting star." She smiled -- and wished, on each that followed, for the night to endure just a moment longer. For a long, long time, until the soft hands of sleep drew unconsciousness in a cloak around her, every wish came true.

*

"-- turned your communicator off."

Julie blinked blearily; she was all the way beneath the blanket, so the world was still completely dark. She closed her eyes again and snuggled into the man next to her. "Well," Chris said, to whomever had spoken. "It was on gold mode. You could've got me in an emergency."

"Nah, no emergency." Mayer Bourne, from the sound of the accent. "I just wanted to see what you were up to. Camping?"

"Stargazing. Meteor shower last night."

"Not bad. You got someone in there with you?"

"Maybe," Chris admitted.

"Anyone I know?"

Caught, Chris sighed. "Yeah. Julie Verne." He drew back the blanket a little, to reveal her head; the world went red as morning sunlight fell on her closed eyelids.

"Jesus Christ, Neumann," Mayer snorted. "You do like 'em small, don't you?"

"Wasn't anything like that. It gets cold out at night here. Figured we wanted to keep warm."

Mayer laughed. "Yeah, I bet. Just figured you'd share the same blanket for convenience, huh?"

"Exactly."

"You know how I know that's bullshit? 'Cause I grew up sleeping with dogs, Neumann. If you'd just been sleeping, she'd be sprawled out on half the blanket and you'd be shoved into a little corner." Bourne snickered; then he quieted down, and gave a short sigh. "Unfortunately for my desire to rag on you, that is about the cutest fucking thing I've ever seen."

"It's one of a number of strong points," Chris said.

"Uh huh. Private Verne?" Bourne's voice was louder, and lower to the ground; when she opened an eye, she found him crouched down on his heels.

"G'morning, sergeant," she told him drowsily.

"Morning. Word of advice?" She nodded, and he grinned mischievously. "Watch out for Chris here. He's got a thing for short folks. I don't know what that's about. You ever see his last girlfriend? She was from Europa -- traditional family. The hair, the getup, the whole thing -- looked like she was about twelve. Creepily short, I'd say."

"I didn't know that at the time," Chris protested.

"You said that, yeah, but now you're two for two," Mayer said, and then looked back to Julie. "Just make sure you keep an eye on him. And don't wear high-heels. Or hats."

"I'll keep that in mind," she mumbled.

"You do that." Bourne straightened up. "Anyway, Chris, I was gonna say I was planning on going down to the range on base and gettin' some time in with my sidearm. Then maybe try this pizza joint I've been hearing a lot about, just off base. You in?"

"When?"

"How much time do you two need? Nah, nah, I'm kidding. I was planning early afternoon sometime."

Chris took a deep breath, thinking. "Yeah, I think I could go for that. I'll give you a call if you have your comm handy."

"Sure. You two enjoy your morning." Bourne gave them a wink, and then walked off, footsteps fading quickly down the path.

Julie closed her eyes again, contemplating sleep. Finally, with something of an effort, she rolled onto her side and gave Chris's face an affectionate lick. "Morning."

"What time is it, anyway?"

His communicator was discarded next to his head; she reached for it, crawling halfway over him to do so, and discovered that this was so comfortable that she felt like staying there, resting atop him while she manipulated the device. "About 0730," she said.

"Hm," he grunted, and leaned up to wrap the dog in his arms, pulling her closer. She gave in easily, resting her nose on his, head tilted lightly to the side. "Did you sleep well?"

She nodded, and gave his conveniently exposed face another lick. "How about you?"

"I had these weird dreams," he said. His hands rubbed distractedly at her sides. "I dreamt I met this amazing girl, and it was the funniest thing, you know? I think she looked and acted exactly like... like..." He stared up at her, narrowing his eyes in mock confusion and wrinkling his brow. "Pinch me and see if I wake up."

Instead, she bit his nose gently. "How's that?"

He closed one eye, thoughtfully, and then kissed the tip of her muzzle. "Nah. I guess I'm still dreaming. Might as well make the best of it, though."

Julie laughed, and relaxed as his wandering hands stroked her back. "Thank you for last night," she finally told him. "I mean, for everything."

"Least I could do."

"It was... it was really nice, waking up here this morning. Comfortable."

She thought she saw him blush slightly; his arms held her tighter for a second or two. "I've, ah... I've wondered what it would be like for awhile now. I..." Now she was certain he was blushing; he swallowed nervously. "You know I'm crazy about you, pup."

Her ears wavered, caught between shyness and delight. "I know," she told him. "I... I don't know what I'd do without you."

Instead of replying, Chris pressed his lips to the dog's muzzle in a warm kiss. She gasped but didn't hesitate further, canting her head to deepen the contact. A few seconds later he pulled away, laughing. "Your whiskers... they're really ticklish."

"Sorry, I --"

He cut her off in another kiss, this one fierce and passionate. When it ended she was panting softly, out of breath, and her tail was wagging swiftly. His hands had found the edge of her cotton tunic, and when he hesitantly teased at it she straightened up long enough for him to get the idea, tugging the garment upwards and off of her.

His hands pressed into her thick, luxuriant fur, smoothing it down with splayed fingers that sunk deeply through her pelt. Chris's touch was gentler than Forster's had been; still she shivered with it, nuzzling into his neck and giving him a few encouraging licks.

"God, pup," he breathed; his fingers were running over her spine, and she shuddered again, helplessly. "You're so soft..." As he stroked her, the attention he lavished on her was starting to bring out little jolts of pleasure and excitement; each time he touched her, she realized anew how much she had been longing for it.

His hands, moving in deliberate circles, slowly drifted lower, to her khakis. This time the hesitation was briefer, and when she lifted her hips up a few centimeters he used the opportunity to undo her belt. He worked her pants from her carefully, threading her wagging tail through the hole she'd cut in the garment; when it was down around her knees she kicked it away, into the blanket. She wanted to encourage him, as his fingers stroked the fur of her thighs, but her words -- muffled against his neck -- came out as a pleased growl.

Her knickers, of more pliant material, were simpler to manipulate; they slid easily over her soft fur, and when these too had gone and she was naked above him Chris turned to her, whispering into her fuzzy ear. "You're just... you're gorgeous, Jules..."

But he seemed to be content, for the moment, with exploring her fur; she had to take the initiative with his own clothes. It was more awkward, with him pinned beneath her, and she had to work at it, but presently his shirt was gone. When she ran the backs of her paws down his sides, teasing him with her fur, he groaned into her ear, and the sound was so intriguing she had no choice but to do it again.

Removing his pants and underwear proved to be more difficult still, occasioned by the bulge she discovered there. It was easier to unzip the khakis completely first; then she could guide his briefs down smoothly along with them. With the constraining fabric gone his stiff erection sprung free, brushing her paw, and they both gasped.

There was a continued hesitation to Chris's actions that put the dog in a position of curious authority -- not that she really knew what she was doing, exactly. The mechanics of the act were more or less obvious; she straddled him, reaching down to guide him between her parted legs. When the blunt head of his shaft nudged against the dog's wet lips, he tensed up, fingers bunching up her fur. "Jules?"

"Mm?" She didn't exactly trust herself to speak.

"I, um." He bit his lip, looking up at her nervously. "I've never done this before."

She blinked, flicking her ears back. "You haven't?"

"My, uh... my girlfriends have all been long-distance and... it's never really... uh..."

Now Verne had to pause, and think. He'd spoken with such sureness about Victor and Tomas -- about similar behavior throughout the platoon -- that she'd merely assumed... "Do you want to stop?"

"Oh god, no! Just, can you... take it slowly?"

Julie smiled, and licked his face once, gently. She knew that nervousness, after all -- that mix of apprehension and anticipation and pure longing. Now it was her turn to introduce that pure intimacy to someone... She lowered her hips smoothly, forcing him up and inside her, centimeter by centimeter. He was a bit shorter than Forster had been, she thought -- but thicker, stretching her, claiming her completely until she was settled atop him. When she took a quick glance, she could just barely see the base of his shaft, and the thought that the rest of it was buried deep inside her sent a little thrill coursing through her veins.

Chris's hands had moved to her hips, squeezing her tightly. He was breathing shallowly, but his eyes were clear and focused on her own. She grinned, and he grinned back -- giving her permission to lift her hips up again, shivering as he was pulled from her. When she dropped back down, a bit faster, his eyes shut and he groaned deeply.

She worked her hips in a slow, circling rhythm, giving herself time to enjoy the feeling of his thick length sliding within her, the friction summoning spasms of pleasure that forced themselves from her in sighing gasps and moans. After the first few strokes he started to move as well, raising his hips to meet her.

It didn't take long before she felt his thighs start to quiver and tremble. He bucked faster, out of time with her, and his hands gripped her sides urgently. "Jules -- oh, pup..." his voice was a strained moan. "Oh, god, Jules, I -- " he gritted his teeth and gave a deep groan, then went completely tense. His length twitched strongly a few times as he shuddered beneath her; then he fell back, and she went down with him.

She licked his face tenderly until he stopped trembling and his hands relaxed their hold on her. His eyes opened, unfocused for a moment; his breathing was ragged and deep. "Hi," she said softly, almost giggling; it was all she could think to say.

"I... ah, hell. I'm sorry," he murmured to her.

Verne cocked her head. "What for?"

"I didn't mean for it to be so... fast. You just... I couldn't help myself. You felt so good, and I..."

Licking his face once more, she shook her head. "Didn't you say it was your first time?"

"Yeah..."

She snuggled into his chest, feeling him start to soften within her. "Did you enjoy it?"

"Oh, god, yes..."

Julie nibbled contemplatively on his chin. "So you'd want to do it again?"

"Of course."

"Then," she said, and lapped his chin soothingly. "We should. Problem solved..."

Chris chuckled; he hugged her tightly, then, crossing his arms behind her back. "I'm really glad my first time was with you, Jules." His voice was soft, tickling her ear. "I couldn't even have imagined..."

With her nose pushed into the crook of her neck, her smile was hidden. Then she nuzzled him, rubbing the soft her of her muzzle against his bare skin. He slipped from her, and she felt the wetness of his release spilling into her fur and the coarse, curling hair of his crotch.

His breathing had returned to normal; as the sun warmed the fur at her back, he petted her comfortably, until presently he rolled her, so that they rested on their sides and he could look at her again.

"You know, I hadn't planned on this when I asked you out here, yesterday..."

She grinned. "Not that much of a rogue, huh?"

Chris laughed, kissing her nose. "No."

"Even though I'm short?"

"Fuckin' Mayer," Chris shook his head. "I didn't even know until we had a holochat. I didn't think I'd ever live that down."

"He's probably told everybody we spent the night together," she pointed out. "They'll forget your girlfriend when that happens, I'm sure."

"Maybe." He hugged her, pulling her close and kissing her muzzle again. "Worth it, though..."

She snickered and kissed him back. "Good."

Chris bit his lip, looking past her to the pond. "So, ah... when you said you might want to do that again, when were you thinking, exactly? Like a... like a future sort of thing?"

"We don't have anywhere to be until the afternoon, right?"

Now he grinned, sheepishly, and his hand stroked her side all the way down to her hips. Pressed up close to him, she could feel his shaft starting to harden again. "So..." He moved further, to the thick fur of her thigh, and gave her a little nudge. Julie rolled onto her back obligingly, turning her head to him.

He was still cautious -- running his hands through the fur of her belly, the white fur dappled with grey-blue spots that made it look slightly dirty. He took his time, slowly working lower, until his fingers were brushing the sensitive fur of her inner thighs and she parted her legs a bit in invitation.

Conscious thought lagged several seconds behind her instincts -- she desired him strongly, she knew; wanted to feel him touching her, claiming her again... and each time her slight frame thrilled to his touch, a moment or two later her brain caught up: yes, that's it... keep going. There could not, she decided firmly, be anything wrong with something that felt so good.

Smooth, warm fingers ran over lips still wet from their earlier activities. Chris propped himself up on one elbow; she felt his eyes on her as he pushed one finger into her slowly, and she shivered with delight. He was keenly, expertly aware of what he was doing to her; as he explored her body, each time she gasped or quivered he deliberately repeated whatever he'd done, until the dog was panting shallowly, with her tongue lolling.

"Do you mind if, uh..." Chris coughed, finger coming to a halt. "Can I taste you? I'd... I'd really like to..."

Jules nodded weakly -- she did not really have the presence of mind to consider questions with any great clarity. She closed her eyes, tracking his movement by feel. His breath ruffled the fur of her chest, and her stomach... When his tongue gently touched her it was not a surprise, but the contact was electric and thrilling, and it jolted her anyway.

Warm, wet heat caressed her lips, exploring every bit of her with such eager hunger that she found herself whimpering, her breath leaving her in a helpless canine whine. She bucked under him, her hips aquiver, and he had to hold her down with his hands. It was getting to be too much.

"Chris," she tried to raise her voice; it came out as a wavering, whispering, needful croak. "Please, take me..."

His tongue left her; he settled back on his knees. "Would you mind, um... Would you mind getting on all fours?"

Julie supposed, dimly, that there was some subtext to the request -- that she should, perhaps, be skeptical of the idea. But she didn't have the willpower for that, and she didn't care. She wanted to feel him deep inside her more than anything; forcing her muscles to work, she got onto her paws, letting her twitching tail flick to the side.

Chris rested a hand on her rump, using the other to position himself. His hard shaft teased her a moment, nudging at her lips; then he pushed forward and into her smoothly, claiming her again, and she cried out in pleasure.

He gripped her haunches in both hands as he started to thrust in quick, firm bucks that buried the whole of his hard, pulsing length deep inside the needy collie. Her ears pinned to either side; the pleasure spreading in warm tendrils from her hips was already threatening to take over.

She couldn't hold back any more than he had been able to; squirming and tensing, she felt the raw ecstasy of release course through her in shuddering waves -- behind her, Chris was groaning as the added tightness took its toll on him. He supported her with his hands at her waist, thrusting through her climax, prolonging it until she was gasping, holding herself up weakly to his deep strokes.

When her mind worked again and she could put her thoughts together he was still rocking his hips powerfully, and the feeling of his length plunging within her over and over snagged her back, drawing her back towards another peak. She felt her fingers curling, digging into the blanket beneath her sharply.

"Julie -- ah, fuck... Jules, I'm gonna come," he grunted hoarsely, squeezing her rear tightly, pulling her back and into every deep thrust.

She lowered her head, panting headily into the blanket, using it to muffle her moans. "Don't stop," she cried, feral instincts drawing words from her in a heated gasp. "God, that's it -- do it, Chris, fill me..."

Her human lover groaned, and pushed forward and into her urgently. His hips ground against her upturned rump, and she felt the warmth of his seed spill into her in a series of hot spurts. That was all it took to send her over the edge again; she howled brokenly into the blanket and the grass beyond, her climax seizing her body with all the subtlety of armed rebellion. Her walls squeezed him, milking his shaft as he pumped it in shallow strokes, keeping himself as deeply buried as he could.

Finally he slumped back, pulling from her, and when the dog tried to get to her knees she found that her body didn't want to answer, leaving her sprawling awkwardly on the blanket, quivering and panting desperately.

A moment later she felt Chris's arms around her again, hugging her. He found her paws, twining his fingers through hers, and rested his head on her shoulder while his breathing came back to normal. "Jules... ah, Christ, pup. That was amazing..."

"I guess it just takes practice," she mumbled, and when she felt able to control herself again she rolled over to face him, licking his nose. "Or you're a natural."

Blushing, he shook his head and squeezed the dog's frame warmly. "Don't think so. I think you just got lucky this one time."

"Yeah, something like that." Julie closed her eyes, relaxing in his safe, comforting embrace. "And we're only on the second day of leave..." Her tail gave a few reflexive thumps against the blanket, and Chris laughed. "Whole morning ahead of us..."

"Should give that guy his blanket back -- maybe try to clean it a bit first. And get some food. What do you say?"

"When?"

She felt him shrug. "Now?"

Julie shook her head. "Got better things to do." Her muzzle was cross-wise on his chest, and with every breath she caught the distinct smell of Chris's body, starting to blend into her own scent.

He yawned, and ran his hands thoughtfully up her spine. "Ah, that's a good point. It's a beautiful morning... I guess we really ought to stay awhile..."

*

Mayer didn't say anything particularly noteworthy when they met that afternoon, and if he had told anybody else in the platoon they gave no outward sign of caring. Over the next two days, they wandered around New Philadelphia together -- sometimes with the company of others from the squad; sometimes by themselves.

The nightmares were starting to get better -- she no longer felt quite as apprehensive about going to sleep, and any time it looked to become difficult she could close her eyes and almost feel the reassuring snugness of Chris's arms wrapping around her.

The Jeffersonians themselves were less easy to deal with. Julie wasn't certain which was worse -- the strange looks she often received, or the alert, inquisitive fawning that followed when they learned that she was a soldier.

News from the west was slow to filter in; shopkeepers and waiters assumed that she must've known something more about what was going on. The truth was that they were all in the dark -- the separatists attacked another convoy, and briefly occupied an ore loading dock in Kemmerer, but Usher's nightly bulletins offered no real sense of clarity.

"Like everybody's waiting. Fuck knows what for; that's the worrying thing. Three twos."

"Three fives," Makkai Egyed raised promptly. "You think they're gonna secede, Oscar?"

Baldetti nodded. "Oh, yeah. Just a matter of time."

"Four twos," Chris Neumann said, cautiously. "You think they'd try it even with CODA dropping a division in orbit? Word on the wire is the convoy's due in any time."

"Yeah, even with. Supposed to be some big protests next week; might even reach the capital," Verne said offhandedly. She was staring fixedly at her dice, clicking her tongue thoughtfully. "Five twos."

Oscar was impressed neither by her offer nor the news. "Seven twos," he drawled. "If they protest here, at least we'll get a good bead on whoever's backin' the fucks, right?"

"Right," Makkai nodded. "Seven... ah, fuck." He glowered at what remained beneath his dice cup. "Seven fours."

His moment of weakness had been enough; Chris shook his head. "Liar."

As it turned out, even with a pair of fortuitous ones in Oscar's cup there were only five dice that counted. Makkai tossed his last die onto the table and pushed his chair back. "Well, that's me out."

That left three of them; they rolled again. Chris spent a long time staring at his single die. "Two threes."

"Oh. Four threes," Verne said lightly. "You know, I had somebody ask me at the market if we were going to start using nukes. I don't think I'd really guessed how angry they are on both sides."

"Yeah, well. Listen to Mayer talk about it." Oscar narrowed his eyes, his brow furrowing as he looked between the two other players. "Seven threes," he finally decided.

"Well. Mayer's biased. According to him everybody in the west is a bunch of inbred yokels who don't know how good they have it. And according to me, you're a fucking liar, Oscar."

Chris's only die was a three. Oscar had two as well, and two wildcards, and with two more in Verne's cup there were just enough to meet the call. "Don't call me names," Oscar teased, as Chris handed over his last die. "Anyway, from what I can tell Mayer's right. You don't see any easterners blowing up trains. C'mon, dog, let's have it. Just us now."

Verne lifted her cup to peek at the dice; she widened her eyes briefly, ears pricking, and her tail thumped a few times before she made the effort to still it. Her voice had a forced calm. "Uh... four sixes?"

"Five sixes," he shot back.

"Bullshit," she said, just as quickly.

Oscar Baldetti raised an eyebrow, and lifted his cup. All four of his dice had sixes showing. Verne, by contrast, had two threes, a four, and a five. "You!" He pointed at the dog accusingly. "You tricked me!"

She put on her best innocent face. "I did what?"

"You wagged your tail! I saw it! Chris, Mak, back me up here."

"I wasn't watching," Chris shrugged.

"The tail was definitely wagging," Egyed said. "I noticed it too."

Oscar's eyes narrowed, and he mostly succeeded in hiding his grin. "Very tricky of you." Before he could roll again, the door to the barracks swung open, and five men entered, laden with gear.

The first was a tall, dark-skinned man with pensive eyes. "Is this, uh, Ray Usher's Third Bravo?"

Mayer Bourne was reading in his bunk; he set the tablet down and got up, stretching. "Yup. What's up?"

"I'm Sergeant Awate Gebre. These are, ah, Corporals Onye Chiedozie and Cora Sabbatini and PFCs Andreja Novak and Greta Baldursdottir. There are actually two more, but their medical records didn't come through so they're in quarantine trying to get it sorted out. Word on the street was you needed reinforcements. We're it."

Mayer reached out his hand, and they shook briefly. "Sergeant Bourne. The LT's out... I dunno, doing whatever LTs do. Platoon sergeant, too. They should be back soon, so, you know. Make yourself comfortable. Where are you in from?"

"I'm from the Kamchatka. Cora and I served in the 73rd Light; Corporal Chiedozie is from the 225th."

"Same task force," Chiedozie nodded. "I was on the Colossus, just before Cedar Valley."

"Andreja and Greta are from Camp Merriwether. So are Janez Novel and Jozsa Adrian, when they show up," Gebre finished.

"We trained on the convoy over, too," one of them said -- a pale-skinned woman with short blonde hair and eyes as blue as Verne's own. Her voice was eager to please. "Briefed on the situation, and everything. They designed the sims especially for this system."

"Oh, good," Mayer said, and managed a smile that anyone who didn't know him would probably find genuine. "Uh, well, just find an empty bunk -- platoon's on leave right now, so not everybody's here. You can get your introductions... well, when you get 'em, anyway. I'll make sure the LT knows to look for you."

Dennis Scott had joined the table, during the introductions; he leaned across it to nudge Oscar's side. "Did they just say they're fresh out of basic?"

"Yup," Oscar grimaced. "Sure sounds like it."

"Shit." Dennis shook his head. "If my dad knew they were reinforcing us with half a dozen rooks..."

"Everybody started out green," Chris sighed, although it was clear that he, too, was unhappy with their lack of experience.

"Yeah, well. You start out green, and you wind up bleeding a real nice red." Oscar tapped his cup of dice against the table, fidgeting. "You'd think they coulda found one whole squad to give us, at least."

"Hey, guys." Corporal Chiedozie had come over to their table, with the blonde private tagging along next to him. "I'm Onye; this is Greta."

"Oscar," Oscar told him, and nodded to the rest of the table in turn. "Chris, Dennis, Julie, Makkai."

Onye waved, and then shrugged in Verne's direction. "The dog part of your unit?"

"What," Oscar rolled his eyes. "You think we just found her somewhere? Yeah, she's in the headquarters section. C&S."

Chiedozie laughed, a sound which faded into a halfhearted chuckle when he began to apprehend that Oscar wasn't joking. "Are you serious? I thought this was a combat unit."

"Back off, new guy," Chris said gently. "Don't want to make a bad impression."

"What, you run into a lot of frisbees on the surface?" Onye shook his head, and started to pull out one of the chairs.

Makkai Egyed shook his head. "Seat's taken."

"No it's not."

Makkai glanced to the others around the table, and swung his legs up to rest on the chair. "Now it is. Why don't you apologize to Verne over there?"

"You mean, to the dog?"

"Right. Then we might be able to find you a seat."

Chiedozie looked profoundly skeptical. "What if I don't care about playing fetch with my platoon?" When this didn't get him anywhere, he tossed up his hands. "C'mon, man. It's a dog."

"Yeah, but she's our dog," Oscar told him. "You don't get to talk to her like that. So why don't you buzz off until you learn some manners?" It hadn't really been a suggestion; shaking his head in disbelief, Onye walked away, taking Greta with him.

"So, wait, point of order." Chris raised his hand. "Does that mean we do get to talk to her like that? I haven't been clear."

Verne gave him a quirky smile. "Maybe."

Chris stroked the stubble on his chin. "So we have special dog-abuse privileges now..."

"Really?"

"Only one way to find out, Dennis," Oscar shrugged.

"Well, if we do, it's gotta be useful for something." Dennis unclipped his communicator from his sleeve, and pitched it with an overhand toss onto his bunk. "Fetch." Verne leaned back in her chair, resting her paws on the edge of the table, and he repeated the command. She stared at him, blinking a few times, and he gestured towards the bunk. "Go on, I said 'fetch.'"

She grinned. "Fetch it yourself."

Dennis raised an eyebrow. "What?"

That toothy smile widened, and her blue eyes danced. "I said, fetch it your own damned self, private." When he paused, she reached into the pocket of her khakis, and withdrew the insignia patch Lieutenant Usher had given to her earlier in the morning. She held it up for Scott's benefit, giving him a wink; she was in an impishly good mood.

"That is some bullshit," Dennis sputtered -- though, rather than arguing further, he got up and retrieved his communicator. "Grade-A bullshit," he repeated, when he sat down. "But congratulations, I guess. When did that happen, anyway?"

"Paperwork went in a couple days ago," Julie said. "And nobody in the chain of command argued."

"That's what happens when you actually drop," Oscar snickered. "Instead of getting a doctor's note."

"Man, fuck you," Dennis scowled. "You try getting shot and see how much you like it."

"I did," Oscar reminded him. "I agree, it's not so much fun. Water under the bridge, though, what do you suppose? You in for a game of dice, Dennis?"

He looked around the table, shrugging. "Yeah, sure, just let me hit the head first. Anybody want a beer while I'm up?"

"Yeah, get a round," Oscar nodded, and pulled out his wallet, handing over a few strips of metal. "I'll buy. Mak, Chris, you ready to go again?"

"Well, somebody's gotta try to clean you out," Chris muttered.

"I'm not the one to worry about. We got a professional here; all devious an' crafty an' stuff -- if she's playing. Are you?"

Verne shrugged, and flashed a smile. "Sure; why not?"

"That's the spirit." He waited for Dennis to return before carefully distributing the dice into his collection of worn, leather-clad cups. "Alright, you know the rules. Ones are wild; ten chalks to raise." When they'd shaken their cups, Oscar cracked his knuckles and nodded to the dog. "Start us off, sarge?"

She lifted the edge of her cup, tilting her head quizzically to puzzle over the contents for a moment. "Hmm. Eight sixes."

"Playing it safe, I see," Makkai said drily.

Julie grinned. "Well, you only live once."