Chapter 1: Double Shot

Double Shot (Of My Baby’s Love)
Swingin’ Medallions

Woke up this morning, my head was so bad
The worst hangover that I ever had
What happened to me last night
That girl of mine, she loved me so right (yeah) (oh, oh)
She loved me so long and she loved me so hard
I finally passed out in her front yard (whoo)
It wasn’t wine that I had too much of
It was a double shot of my baby’s love

written by Don Smith and Cyril Vetter

Richard Ames Gentry, smoke jumper, woke on his back with a sixties song running through his aching brain. His mouth tasted like crap. In fact, his body ached like an Abrams tank had run over him. He sure as heck had a hangover but couldn’t yet remember why. He hadn’t been drinking or smoking, and he’d had no baby nearby to give him a double shot of love! Did he?

His left shoulder felt heavy, and something tickled through the ache. His right shoulder was also heavy. Because he was sorta facing that way, he looked past his nose to the right and saw a head with curly brown hair. Movement on his left caused him to shift, and he looked down to another head, this one with pixie-cut, light brown hair. Steel gray eyes looking unblinkingly at him. And lordy-mercy, with his transiting vision, he saw that his aching head was in another someone’s lap.

A mountain blocked the light shining down on him and a voice boomed, “Wakie-wakie recruit! You have decisions to make.”

“Say what?” Richard responded brightly to the Marine corporal leaning over him.

“Look,” the Marine replied, “you and that little bit on your right shoulder were stunned by Private Weems when he zapped the asshole that was trying to off you. I’m thinkin’ Missy, there, probably stepped between you and the asshole, because she wanted to save your butt. The other two refused to leave you. Are they your prepack? You only get two you know.”

‘Prepack?’ Richard’s brain still wasn’t back from its brief vacation, and he remained silent.

While waiting for an intelligent response, the Marine muttered to himself, “Asshole musta thought this guy was already a Marine – fancy that!” He waited impatiently for a few more minutes, then told Richard, “Whoops! The ensign consulted the AI and it says you can have three, but only if you take these three. Apparently, it thinks the four of you make a good fit – whatever the hell that means. New to me!”

Gray-eyes whispered, “Take me, please. I’m from California, and I’ll never get another chance. I’ll be good for you, I promise.”

A tear splashed down on his nose and ran onto his cheek. The woman holding him hadn’t spoken, but her fear of rejection was obvious.

The bundle on his right snored...

The corporal was clearly losing patience, “Are you going or not? You got a bonus conk by stalling. Don’t think you can hold out for more! Holy shit! The AI is offering a future draft pick if you’ll hurry up and get off the pot. What are you – some kinda wonder boy?”

Draft pick! That got Richard’s attention. If he understood the offer and how pickups worked, he really, really needed the draft pick. Smokey. He had to get Gwen Novak out of California.

“Yeah, I’ll come,” he managed to mutter through his headache, “and if these ladies want to come with me, I’ll take them. BUT only if I’m guaranteed my draft pick BEFORE I officially sign on.”

“You don’t trust us?” The corporal was indignant.

“That’s not it,” Richard told him. “Look, get me somewhere and something to get rid of this headache, and I’ll explain to your ensign or whoever. There’s going to be complications, and I hope I’m worth it.”

“Now you’re talkin’,” the big Marine smiled. “You don’t seem to remember, but outside the interdiction field, this chalet is about to be surrounded by a fuckin’ forest fire. As soon as we’re gone, the building goes up in smoke.”

The corporal bent and lifted the unconscious woman to his shoulder and declared, “I’ll carry this little bit and you herd the other two.” He paused and shook his head, “Or they can herd you. Whatever works, but we need to get you and this one into a med tube, or as you already know, the headaches are gonna be ferocious.”

His coffin lid opened. Richard’s headache ache was gone, but someone or something was in his head. <Do not be alarmed, candidate Richard Ames Gentry. I am the medical AI for this facility and you are in a med-tube. At your request, you are not yet a citizen, but in the expectation that you will honor your agreement, I have implanted a communications device. I’ll instruct you in its use later, but now Lieutenant Mark Anthony Caesar is waiting to speak with you. He is impatient and becoming irritated that I delayed your exit in order to brief you.>

Richard snorted at the name. He had the bad habit of baiting officious superiors, so he wiped the grin off his face, sat up, and looked out. Standing next to his med tube was a lovely woman clad in a see though version of a Halloween-type nurse’s outfit. She had lovely tetas with perky pink tips. Behind her stood a frowning, uniformed giant that he supposed was the impatient lieutenant, and further on were three feminine figures who stood frowning defiantly at the lieutenant’s back.

He ignored the lieutenant and turned to the presumed nurse, “May I have my clothes back, please?”

“Certainly, sir,” a melodious voice answered, “but while you’re indoors, wouldn’t you rather have something lighter and more comfortable? Maybe a nice pair of jeans and a short-sleeve Henley?”

“Recruit! You are keeping your superior officer waiting,” growled the waiting lieutenant.

Ignoring the increasingly irritated Marine, Richard addressed the woman, “Yes, thank you, and maybe a pair of SoftWool socks and some walkers. I like the old Etonics.” Then he added, “Boxer briefs or commando is fine...”

While the ‘nurse’ walked over to a slot in the wall, Richard climbed out and faced the lieutenant. “You aren’t my superior anything,” the assured man told him. “The Confederacy has a contractual obligation to fulfill before I’m committed.”

“Then why do you have three conks?” The lieutenant turned and pointed at the three women, “And why are they still dressed?”

“Those three lovelies aren’t concubines, they are my...”

<Guests, > the AI volunteered. <and they have already been checked in a med tube.>

“ ... guests,” Richard told him. “Look, I have no idea why the Confederacy wants me bad enough to bribe me to volunteer. The AI found the right bait and hook, or I’d have stayed right there, fighting Sa’arm my own way.”

Richard tried to suppress his desire to bait the lieutenant, but he still held up his hand and snarked, “Lieutenant, I’m going to get myself dressed and check with the ladies you’ve kept standing. Why don’t you use the time to read your mail or something, and maybe we’ll both find out what’s going on?”

Richard turned to the trio and caught them watching avidly as he pulled on a pair of boxer briefs and his new jeans. Gray-eyes walked over and ran her palms up his abs to his nipples. “Thanks for bringing us with ... I feel like I won the grand prize in a lottery.” Then she stepped back and giggled, letting the other two women hug him.

“Ladies,” Richard told them, “In case you haven’t noticed, I still have clothes to put on.”

“Aw, do you have ta?” came from a curly haired head that moved up to nuzzle under his chin.

The tallest of the three – he recognized her as owning the lap that had cradled his head – stepped up and lifted a bright orange Henley. “Bend down and hold out your arms,” she demanded. “If we gotta wrap you, let’s get it done.”

When Gray-eyes held up a pair of socks, Richard used perfect balance, lifted each leg, and let her slip them on. His shoes were presented by another pair of helpful hands, and he let their owner do likewise.

With both feet now on the floor, lap-lady knelt and fastened the Velcro tabs, while he threaded a woven leather belt.

Lieutenant Caesar’s faraway look disappeared, and he took the few steps needed to reach the quartet. “Okay, I’m up to speed – at least partway. The AI has allotted temporary quarters while we sort out retrieving your draft pick. I’ll take you to your new apartment, and we can sit while I explain.”

As they walked, Caesar fished, “This draft pick must be some looker or mattress artist.”

“She’s my battle buddy and my smoke jumpin’ partner – been together forever,” Richard answered. “Name’s Gwen Novak, but I call her Smokey. She’s minding her nieces and nephews while her sister Kate is having another baby, but she’s in fucking Cal, fucking I, fucking fornia. Shit heads! And, by-the-way, she won’t be coming as a concubine, and she’ll be bringing her family. The ‘draft pick’ was just to facilitate things. I learned in the Army, get it in writing ahead of time, or it ain’t happening.”

When the Lieutenant appeared about to object, Richard raised his hand, “I know. I don’t have a darned thing in writing, but I’ve heard the AIs are sticklers for honoring a contract. I, too, keep my word.”