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Authors: R. M. Meluch
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The lowing of livestock in the lower hold meant this was going to be a very long trip.
Heavy boots clanged against deck grates at a run, with shouts of “Clear ladder!” just before the thump of a duffel bag dropping down the shaft and the squawk of someone who didn’t clear fast enough.
And why weren’t the medics clearing Ranza out of this exam room so they could poke at those guys?
Ranza curled her toes. Sniffed antiseptic smells. She banged on the partition with the side of her fist. Called, “Hey! Yous guys forget me or somethin’!”
Didn’t hear nobody hurrying on the far side.
They forgot her.
Ranza called louder, “I’m havin’ a heart attack in here!”
In no real big hurry a med tech sauntered in. Young. Snotty. He turned his back to her, fed something into the database. He glanced over Ranza’s stats, then eyed Ranza with a gluey smile. “Had fun ashore I see.”
Ranza never liked the guy. She knew the type. Only in the service to line up a position in the private sector. He looked at her with the kind of sleazy, smarmy attitude that insinuates something.
“Can I get dressed?” Ranza said.
“I guess.” The tech shrugged with one shoulder. “You flunked the physical.”
“Did not.” Ranza sat straight up, her muscular arms akimbo, broad shoulders spread their broadest. Did he want to see how many med tech curls she could do?
“MO will be right with you.” The skinny tech walked out.
Ranza threw a specimen jar after him. Pity it was empty.
She’d been spending her leave on Earth, most of the time with her three kids and her mom—who was raising Ranza’s three kids. And Ranza had had some fun.
Uh-oh .
That was it, wasn’t it?
The moment the ship’s Medical Officer, Mohsen Shah, stepped through the hatchway, Ranza cried, “Don’t tell me I got VD.”
Mo gave a slow sideways nod. “V yes. D no. You are being pregnant.”
“No!” She guessed it was a little late to be using that word. “You mean to tell me that son of a bitch was shooting live rounds?”
“Yes. Is there being something you are wanting to be telling me about this man?”
“Not really,” said Ranza.
“Let me be speaking plainly—” Mo began.
“You can do that, Mo?” said Ranza.
The gentle placid Riverite doctor could meander all over the park before he completed a thought, and by the end of it Ranza often forgot what he was supposed to be saying.
Someone else answered. “I can.”
Ranza turned to the other guy who had just entered the compartment. “Oh, thank God.” An interpreter.
Rob Roy Buchanan. The ship’s tame lawyer. Straight talker. Nice guy. Late thirties. Looked a whole bunch younger. Rob Roy was a long, tall reed with a slouch like a teenager. His rank was lieutenant, but he wasn’t a line officer. He was Merrimack ’s Legal Officer. Most of the Marines called him the First Mate because he was married to the captain.
It didn’t occur to Ranza right away to wonder why there was a lawyer in her examination room.
“Look, Mister Buchanan,” Ranza started, “tell Mo to just inc the little zygote and lemme get back to work. ’Kay?”
Naval regs did not permit little passengers to serve on board space battleships. And Ranza didn’t want any kid of hers in harm’s way either. That was why God invented incubators.
Rob Roy Buchanan hesitated. The lawyer might be able to speak plainly, but he wasn’t doing it now. Something wasn’t right. There was definitely something wrong here besides pregnancy. Ranza tensed up.
“Flight Leader,” Rob Roy began.
Uh-oh .
He called her Flight Leader. Not Ranza.
He’d gone formal on her. Not good. Not good. Not good .
“If this embryo leaves your body alive by artificial means and the father is a Roman citizen, then Rome legally can—and absolutely will—take immediate custody.”
“It’s not Roman!” Ranza said. Afraid she shouted.
Rob Roy’s voice stayed calm, even a little apologetic. “Yes, it is. And Rome has
The lowing of livestock in the lower hold meant this was going to be a very long trip.
Heavy boots clanged against deck grates at a run, with shouts of “Clear ladder!” just before the thump of a duffel bag dropping down the shaft and the squawk of someone who didn’t clear fast enough.
And why weren’t the medics clearing Ranza out of this exam room so they could poke at those guys?
Ranza curled her toes. Sniffed antiseptic smells. She banged on the partition with the side of her fist. Called, “Hey! Yous guys forget me or somethin’!”
Didn’t hear nobody hurrying on the far side.
They forgot her.
Ranza called louder, “I’m havin’ a heart attack in here!”
In no real big hurry a med tech sauntered in. Young. Snotty. He turned his back to her, fed something into the database. He glanced over Ranza’s stats, then eyed Ranza with a gluey smile. “Had fun ashore I see.”
Ranza never liked the guy. She knew the type. Only in the service to line up a position in the private sector. He looked at her with the kind of sleazy, smarmy attitude that insinuates something.
“Can I get dressed?” Ranza said.
“I guess.” The tech shrugged with one shoulder. “You flunked the physical.”
“Did not.” Ranza sat straight up, her muscular arms akimbo, broad shoulders spread their broadest. Did he want to see how many med tech curls she could do?
“MO will be right with you.” The skinny tech walked out.
Ranza threw a specimen jar after him. Pity it was empty.
She’d been spending her leave on Earth, most of the time with her three kids and her mom—who was raising Ranza’s three kids. And Ranza had had some fun.
Uh-oh .
That was it, wasn’t it?
The moment the ship’s Medical Officer, Mohsen Shah, stepped through the hatchway, Ranza cried, “Don’t tell me I got VD.”
Mo gave a slow sideways nod. “V yes. D no. You are being pregnant.”
“No!” She guessed it was a little late to be using that word. “You mean to tell me that son of a bitch was shooting live rounds?”
“Yes. Is there being something you are wanting to be telling me about this man?”
“Not really,” said Ranza.
“Let me be speaking plainly—” Mo began.
“You can do that, Mo?” said Ranza.
The gentle placid Riverite doctor could meander all over the park before he completed a thought, and by the end of it Ranza often forgot what he was supposed to be saying.
Someone else answered. “I can.”
Ranza turned to the other guy who had just entered the compartment. “Oh, thank God.” An interpreter.
Rob Roy Buchanan. The ship’s tame lawyer. Straight talker. Nice guy. Late thirties. Looked a whole bunch younger. Rob Roy was a long, tall reed with a slouch like a teenager. His rank was lieutenant, but he wasn’t a line officer. He was Merrimack ’s Legal Officer. Most of the Marines called him the First Mate because he was married to the captain.
It didn’t occur to Ranza right away to wonder why there was a lawyer in her examination room.
“Look, Mister Buchanan,” Ranza started, “tell Mo to just inc the little zygote and lemme get back to work. ’Kay?”
Naval regs did not permit little passengers to serve on board space battleships. And Ranza didn’t want any kid of hers in harm’s way either. That was why God invented incubators.
Rob Roy Buchanan hesitated. The lawyer might be able to speak plainly, but he wasn’t doing it now. Something wasn’t right. There was definitely something wrong here besides pregnancy. Ranza tensed up.
“Flight Leader,” Rob Roy began.
Uh-oh .
He called her Flight Leader. Not Ranza.
He’d gone formal on her. Not good. Not good. Not good .
“If this embryo leaves your body alive by artificial means and the father is a Roman citizen, then Rome legally can—and absolutely will—take immediate custody.”
“It’s not Roman!” Ranza said. Afraid she shouted.
Rob Roy’s voice stayed calm, even a little apologetic. “Yes, it is. And Rome has
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