Read Online Not For Glory by Joel Rosenberg - Free Book Online
Authors: Joel Rosenberg
Tags: Fiction, General, Science-Fiction, Fantasy, Fantasy Fiction; American, Science fiction; American
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of the public corridor and into her quarters.
"You're late," she said to me, softening the words with a smile that she didn't mean. "We were going to start without you. Welcome back, Ari," she said.
She didn't mean it. She meant, What are you doing here?
"Thank you, Aunt Rivka," he said, as though he meant it. Which he didn't.
Just to be sociable, I would have said something I didn't mean, but I couldn't think of anything really good.
"Aunt Rivka," I said. That was close enough. She wasn't really our aunt, but my mother's sister's aunt—call that whatever relationship you want to. Well, actually, Aunt Leah is really what people on other worlds would call my mother's half-sister, although we don't use the "half" designation in Metzada. Those who are blood of my blood and bone of my bone are not half of anything.
Modest living is part of the Golda image; except for the walk-in kitchen on one end and the private shower and toilet on the other, the apartment was a typical one-room, suitable for up to three adult bachelors or a single or paired widow with no children at home: basically, a single, a box four meters square, two and a half meters high. Inside was a couch that could convert into a bed at night, a table, and a dozen chairs stacked in the corner for visitors. In the far corner of the room, a desk with a terminal stood next to the delivery tube. The rug was a simple surface-grass mat.
An old copy of a Chagall print decorated the far wall; on the stone coffee table there was a bust of Rivka's second husband Yaacov that, even to my untrained eye, was clearly the work of Rachel's mother.
Two of the chairs had been unstacked, and both were occupied: one by tall, ganging Pinhas Levine, chief of Section—my boss—the other by Senior General David Alon, who was the new DCSOPS, Deputy Chief of Staff, Operations.
Zev gave me a sideways glance as though to say that he didn't think there was any coincidence in that. Nor any danger, really; everyone in the room was among the small number who knew what I really do for a living.
"Tetsuo, Zev, Ari," Levine said, pronouncing our names like ticks on a drumhead. He settled his glasses forward on his nose and picked up a sheaf of flimsies.
Alon didn't say anything; he just set down his coffee cup and sat back in his chair, running stubby fingers through thinning hair before folding his hands over his barely-bulging belly. At fifty or so, he was losing both the minor battle of the receding hairline and the more significant campaign against the slide of his chest down toward his waistline, but the war was by no means over.
Zev unstacked a chair and handed it across the table to me; I set it down for Ari and took the next one for myself.
Rivka gestured us to sit while she went into the kitchenette, coming out with a fresh thermos-pot of coffee and a stack of rolls. "Please. Just out of the oven."
And into the recycler, if there's a God.
I repressed a shudder as I poured myself a cup of the weak coffee—on Metzada, luxury items tend not to be very luxurious—and picked up one of the rolls, biting tentatively, while Zev and Ari did the same.
It tasted horrible. Too little salt, too lumpy, and the bottom of it was burnt.
A logical necessity, really; ever since the days of David Warcinsky and the exile to Metzada, we've taken our meals in communal dining halls. Cooking is a profession: it takes a long time to learn how to do it well. Ancient traditions to the contrary, not every woman can cook well, any more than every man can be a great warrior. It's necessary for us, all too often, to force men beyond their abilities in the field; women in the kitchen are a different matter.
"So," she said, taking her seat between Levine and Alon, folding her hands primly in her lap. "Where do we stand?"
Ari looked puzzled. "I haven't put in the paper—"
"The Legion? It's not that. Forget about that." Alon drummed his fingers against his thigh. "It's not that. It's your uncle
"You're late," she said to me, softening the words with a smile that she didn't mean. "We were going to start without you. Welcome back, Ari," she said.
She didn't mean it. She meant, What are you doing here?
"Thank you, Aunt Rivka," he said, as though he meant it. Which he didn't.
Just to be sociable, I would have said something I didn't mean, but I couldn't think of anything really good.
"Aunt Rivka," I said. That was close enough. She wasn't really our aunt, but my mother's sister's aunt—call that whatever relationship you want to. Well, actually, Aunt Leah is really what people on other worlds would call my mother's half-sister, although we don't use the "half" designation in Metzada. Those who are blood of my blood and bone of my bone are not half of anything.
Modest living is part of the Golda image; except for the walk-in kitchen on one end and the private shower and toilet on the other, the apartment was a typical one-room, suitable for up to three adult bachelors or a single or paired widow with no children at home: basically, a single, a box four meters square, two and a half meters high. Inside was a couch that could convert into a bed at night, a table, and a dozen chairs stacked in the corner for visitors. In the far corner of the room, a desk with a terminal stood next to the delivery tube. The rug was a simple surface-grass mat.
An old copy of a Chagall print decorated the far wall; on the stone coffee table there was a bust of Rivka's second husband Yaacov that, even to my untrained eye, was clearly the work of Rachel's mother.
Two of the chairs had been unstacked, and both were occupied: one by tall, ganging Pinhas Levine, chief of Section—my boss—the other by Senior General David Alon, who was the new DCSOPS, Deputy Chief of Staff, Operations.
Zev gave me a sideways glance as though to say that he didn't think there was any coincidence in that. Nor any danger, really; everyone in the room was among the small number who knew what I really do for a living.
"Tetsuo, Zev, Ari," Levine said, pronouncing our names like ticks on a drumhead. He settled his glasses forward on his nose and picked up a sheaf of flimsies.
Alon didn't say anything; he just set down his coffee cup and sat back in his chair, running stubby fingers through thinning hair before folding his hands over his barely-bulging belly. At fifty or so, he was losing both the minor battle of the receding hairline and the more significant campaign against the slide of his chest down toward his waistline, but the war was by no means over.
Zev unstacked a chair and handed it across the table to me; I set it down for Ari and took the next one for myself.
Rivka gestured us to sit while she went into the kitchenette, coming out with a fresh thermos-pot of coffee and a stack of rolls. "Please. Just out of the oven."
And into the recycler, if there's a God.
I repressed a shudder as I poured myself a cup of the weak coffee—on Metzada, luxury items tend not to be very luxurious—and picked up one of the rolls, biting tentatively, while Zev and Ari did the same.
It tasted horrible. Too little salt, too lumpy, and the bottom of it was burnt.
A logical necessity, really; ever since the days of David Warcinsky and the exile to Metzada, we've taken our meals in communal dining halls. Cooking is a profession: it takes a long time to learn how to do it well. Ancient traditions to the contrary, not every woman can cook well, any more than every man can be a great warrior. It's necessary for us, all too often, to force men beyond their abilities in the field; women in the kitchen are a different matter.
"So," she said, taking her seat between Levine and Alon, folding her hands primly in her lap. "Where do we stand?"
Ari looked puzzled. "I haven't put in the paper—"
"The Legion? It's not that. Forget about that." Alon drummed his fingers against his thigh. "It's not that. It's your uncle
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