Free In Every Clime and Place by Patrick LeClerc Page B

crazy, but the bullet missed everything vital.”
    “I just never knew how bad a gunshot wound looked.”
    I sat down on the rack and broke my ACR open shotgun-style, swinging the barrel down away from the lower receiver. I removed the bolt, then swabbed out the chamber. “Combat wounds can get pretty ugly. Get used to the sight of blood.”
    “I still can’t get over how that guy’s head got opened up like that.” He shook his head.
    “Better his than yours, Marine. Just remember that.” I wiped off the bolt, removing the powder residue. We cleaned our weapons in silence for a while. I don’t particularly care for the sight of slaughter myself, but there are people who ask for it, by shooting at us or letting children starve to death. I was at the point where I no longer had doubts or regrets about killing an enemy. They chose to die when they chose to screw with the Corps.
    The hatch to the head opened and Sabatini walked out wearing a clean set of utilities, drying her dark hair with a regulation green towel. She has the annoying habit of reminding me she’s a woman every now and then, even surrounded by olive drab. I couldn’t forget the kiss at the airlock, either. And after Doc Roy’s teasing in sickbay...
    “Hiya, chief,” she called out cheerfully. “How’s the leprechaun?”
    I smiled. “A little respect for your elders. He’s doing OK. I didn’t see him, he’s still out. I was gonna swing by sickbay before I turn in tonight and see if he’s up.”
    “Tell him I don’t have a victim for poker until he gets back.”
    “You did a job on me,” Johnson complained.
    “You’re still a student, not a victim yet,” she explained, smiling sweetly. “O’Rourke is experienced enough to know better and still gets his ass kicked.”
    “You all done in the head?” I asked.
    “Uh huh,” she said through the towel. “You boys go on in. No grab-ass in there, now.”
    “Don’t worry, I told him no tongue until he makes lance corporal.”
    It felt great to strip off my sweaty uniform and wash the grime of Sunflower One off my body. Christ, what a place. A mining asteroid named like a floating vacation resort. What the hell were they thinking?
    ****
    It turned out one of the social workers did know how to play poker. Having two women at the table meant that Johnson was concentrating even less than usual. I held him back on putting up more of his pay, but he owed Sabatini a week of boot shining and he was cleaning the head for the rest of the cruise. Poor bastard would have to smarten up sooner or later.
    The social worker was an attractive twenty-two-year-old blonde just out of some school in the mid-west. Her name was Christine Sterndale, which sounded so horribly uppercrust prep school I was tempted to dislike her on the spot. I felt my old blue collar Irish insecurity manifesting itself. I saw the university sweatshirt with its Latin motto, heard the name, and had my knee-jerk reaction of spoiled-rich-kid-who-never-did-an-honest-day’s-work—until I remembered that she and her co-workers had volunteered for this duty out here in the boondocks to help people. And she’d probably had other options. If I’d been born wealthy, I can’t say I’d have been out there.
    “I’ll take two,” she said, tossing her cards in the discard pile. “By the way, what made you all join the Marines? I didn’t expect you to be so...” She trailed off, embarrassed.
    “Civilized?” I asked, dealing her two more cards.
    “Walking upright? Having thumbs?” Sabatini chimed in. “Not drinking the blood of our fallen enemy?”
    “I’m sorry. We’re all very grateful for your help. I just never thought of the military as compassionate. We always looked at you as bullies forcing Corporate America’s foreign policy down the throats of the underprivileged. I never realized that you sometimes oppose the bullies.”
    This is why I have so low an opinion of college students. I bit back a smart remark; at least