It was the hot time, before the rains came.
There was no relief to be had from the blasting heat that weighed upon the spirit like the heaviest burden. The air had not felt the touch of a breeze for weeks, and the sea had been as smooth as a mirror for almost as long. Even the caves of the Ikranaru were stifling from the relentless furnace-like heat.
"Fuck!" swore Zharr'n, under her breath, trying to ignore the trickle of sweat between her shoulder blades. She had not thought of herself as Sharon the chicken strangler since many months now, nor had she spoken words in her birth-tongue, the 'Ìnglìsì of the sky people, in all that time.
Until today.
"Fuck!" she repeated louder, a little unnecessarily. "It's bloody hot." She flexed her hands once, trying to control the temper she felt simmering under her surface calm. If this weather did not break soon, she would go stark staring insane. She scowled at the calm sea, bereft of any sign of waves. Zharr'n had not surfed since this shitty excuse for a season had begun.
It would not do for the Tsahik of the Ikranaru to explode in a fit of anger, just because she hadn't been able to carve a few sets. Zharr'n felt the weight of her duty as though a mountain had settled across her shoulders. She could not do anything else. Zharr'n owed far too much to the clan that had accepted a stranger into its heart to do less than her best.
"You have a talent for stating the obvious, my love," teased Tsa'peen, her sister of the tsumuke'awsiteng. The clan healer also spoke in 'Ìnglìsì, the harsh words tempered by a strong German accent. Like Zharr'n, Tsa'peen also had the five-fingered hands of a Uniltìranyu.
Uncharacteristically, Zharr'n did not reply to the observation with a pithy string of words, and Tsa'peen's eyes narrowed as she saw her sister's hands flex again.
"At home," said Zharr'n slowly, instantly worrying her sister. Tsa'peen had never heard Zharr'n refer to Earth as home before, not in all the time she had known her. "When it was this fucking hot, we'd go over the wire into town, trash a few bars and beat the stuffing out of any snotty townies who whined about it." She grinned suddenly. "It was one point for knocking out a townie, and five for a copper. They usually sent the soggies when they ran out of the ordinary screws – we got ten points for a soggie."
"What's a soggie?" asked Tsa'peen.
"The septics called them SWAT," replied Zharr'n. She sighed in fond remembrance, adding, "It was twenty points for a meat-head – military police. But they usually weren't stupid enough to fight us door-kickers. The fucking provos would set up a perimeter so we couldn't throw smoke and fade away. The bastards would wait until we drank ourselves stupid before they picked us up and tossed us in the guardhouse."
Tsa'peen shook her head. The life that her sister had led as a trooper in the Aussie SAS was more alien to Tsa'peen than living as one of the Na'vi, in a body that had been grown in a tank rather than the womb of her mother. "Didn't you get into trouble?" asked Tsa'peen.
"Of course," answered Zharr'n. "But it was a fucking tradition of the regiment, as long as we didn't kill anyone. All we'd get would be a pineapple and a solid beasting the next morning, a week's loss of pay and confined to barracks."
"I suppose you would usually win the competition," said Tsa'peen drily. It seemed the appropriate thing to say, as she had long known that Zharr'n was only slightly less competitive than Attila the Hun.
"No, I never did win," said Zharr'n. Her eyes grew a little moist. "Boof always got the highest score. He had fists like fucking wrecking balls. One fucking hit would send some poor unsuspecting shithead of a civvie into next week." She sighed again. "He was the one who gave me my team name, the first one to call me Chinkers."
"You miss him," said Tsa'peen quietly. Zharr'n had mentioned once that Boof had been her team partner all the way through her service in the SAS, up until he was killed in her last combat action as a human.
Zharr'n's face tightened, and she nodded once. There was a little catch in her voice when she said, "He was the big brother I never had." There were several seconds of silence until Zharr'n grabbed Tsa'peen by the upper arm and pulled her away from the cliff top, ordering, "Come."
Tsa'peen breathed in the smell of sawdust and resin permeating the air under the shelter where Zharr'n shaped her surfboards. Her sister rummaged under a tree root, and slid out a small wooden box, the close-grained timber battered and scratched with hard usage.
"What's in it?" asked Tsa'peen.
"Bits and pieces," answered Zharr'n, opening it reverently. "Just bits and pieces I collected over the years." She withdrew a small sheaf of photographs, and flipped though a couple, presenting one to her sister. "That's me and Boof, after a sweep through some shitty valley in the Hindu Kush."
The background of the 3D photo showed towering snow-capped mountains above a desiccated landscape. In the foreground were two filthy yet grinning soldiers. The smaller one had to be Zharr'n, thought Tsa'peen. She had never seen her sister's human face before – the face of an Imperial Han princess, incongruously surrounded by long blonde hair tied back in a loose plait, her Kevlar helmet discarded on the ground in front of her. Tsa'peen smiled – the face of the soldier still looked like her sister of the tsumuke'awsiteng, but there was something else about the photo that niggled at her brain. She shrugged to herself – it was probably nothing.
The larger soldier was a mountain of a man, his huge hand resting lightly on Zharr'n's shoulder. By no stretch of the imagination could he be called handsome. In fact, he had to have one of the ugliest faces Tsa'peen had ever seen. She studied the photo more closely – the quality of the image was excellent. The dark marks on Zharr'n's right trouser leg were easily identifiable as dried bloodstains. "What's this?" asked Tsa'peen, pointing to her leg in the photo, the leg that was only gingerly supporting her weight.
"Oh, that was the first time I was wounded," said Zharr'n lightly. "I got nicked in the thigh about a week before the photo, but we were in constant contact with the ragheads. The pricks had decent SAMs so the choppers couldn't do a dust off. Boof whipped my daks off and patched me up toot sweet, and I was right as rain. The bugger carried my gear as well as his so I could fight through to the end of the op." She smiled faintly, adding, "Hurt worse than shitting fucking razor blades though."
It looked more than a nick to Tsa'peen. From her experience in the largest ER in Munich, by the size of the blood stain Tsa'peen thought Zharr'n must have lost at least half a litre of blood. But she didn't say anything. "Can I have a look at the other photos?" she asked.
"Sure," replied Zharr'n, and passed the sheaf over. Almost every one showed Boof and Zharr'n in close proximity, whether in uniform, on a beach or in some disreputable-looking bar. It didn't matter who else was in the photo – it was clear that the pair were inseparable.
"Were you glued together at the hip, or what?" queried Tsa'peen.
"Pretty much," said Zharr'n, "Except when we were both trying to score the same cute guy." She chuckled briefly, and noted Tsa'peen's raised eyebrow. "Boof was as gay as a troupe of airline stewards," she explained. She put the box down and gazed into the distance. "He always gaffed the best looking talent." Zharr'n shook her head in remembered amazement – for a fucking ugly bloke, he had the gift of the gab and could talk just about any fairy into a spot of gardening.
Tsa'peen picked up the box to replace the photos when she observed a dull metallic gleam inside. Without thinking, she reached in and plucked out a small bronze cross attached to a dark crimson ribbon. It was inscribed 'For Valour'. She turned it over - the obverse was engraved in tiny plain script – Tpr S. X. King VX15182.
"What did they give you this medal for?" Tsa'peen creased her brows, studying the medal held flat in her hand. She felt as though she should recognise the decoration.
"Nothing!" snarled Zharr'n, snatching it from her, along with the photos. She stuffed both into the box, snapping it shut and turning away, but not before Tsa'peen saw two hot tears well from her sister's eyes.
Suddenly, Tsa'peen realised what the medal was - the highest award for gallantry for the Australian military. She wrapped her arms around Zharr'n's shoulders and said softly, "It's the Victoria Cross. They gave it to you after Boof was killed."
When Zharr'n nodded, Tsa'peen felt tears drop onto her forearm.
"They wouldn't let me refuse it," whispered Zharr'n. "They said it would dishonour Boof."
"Oh, Zharr'n," said Tsa'peen sadly. She turned her sister around, kissing her on the forehead and holding her close as she wept.
It seemed some wounds never healed.
"Your mate mourns her brother-in-arms, the one she tried to save in battle on 'Rrta," Tsa'peen told Alìmtaw. "The heat reminds her of him. Both her commitment to her duty as Tsahik and her memories are grinding her spirit down."
"Her sadness has worried me," commented Alìmtaw, his voice deeply concerned. "No matter what I do, Zharr'n does not smile." He sighed. "At least we know why now."
Tsa'peen's mate Maweypay squeezed her hand reassuringly. "Zharr'n has not ridden a wave since the heat came," he said. "She needs to go away, to do something different to bring her spirit into balance."
Alìmtaw's head swivelled towards Maweypay. "You are truly named, my cousin," he said. "A time away from her burden will do her spirit well."
"A holiday," said Tsa'peen wonderingly. How could she have been so stupid not to think of something so simple. "I think I know just the thing that will shake her out of her misery."
"So just where are we going?" asked Zharr'n. She had been surprised when her mate had suggested they go on a hunting trip with Tsa'peen and Maweypay. Somehow, before she knew it, she found she was hustled out of the village of the Ikranaru and on the trail. Zharr'n did not recollect that she had ever agreed to go.
"Into the mountains," replied Alìmtaw. "It is cooler there."
"Yes," agreed Tsa'peen. "We will return when the rains begin." She grinned at Maweypay, who grinned back at her.
"So it's cooler," commented Zharr'n. She thought to herself it wouldn't be too fucking hard for it to be cooler than it was today. If she had spilled a drop of water onto sunlit bare rock it would have flashed instantly into steam. "Is there any other reason we are going?"
"There are many reasons," replied Alìmtaw.
Zharr'n gritted her teeth in annoyance. She knew that he was not going to say anything else, not until he was ready to tell her what those reasons were.
She found out one of the reasons that night, after the four Ikranaru made camp and had eaten.
"I would hear tales of your brother, my love," said Alìmtaw. "The one that you called Boof."
Zharr'n struggled not to burst into hysterical laughter. The way her mate pronounced the team name of her oppo sounded like 'poof' – and he had most definitely been one of those. In fact, that was how he had got his team name, when some forgettable homophobic wannabe had hung the label of 'Boof the Poof' on her best oppo, before she ever met him.
"What is so funny?" asked Maweypay, observing her struggle to contain her mirth.
"It is very difficult to explain," replied Zharr'n, trying to keep a serious face and failing. "You have to be a native speaker of 'Ìnglìsì to understand."
Maweypay frowned. "But Tsa'peen is not laughing, and she too was once tawtute."
"My birth tongue was not 'Ìnglìsì," said Tsa'peen primly. "I spoke Toitsye first, long before I ever learnt 'Ìnglìsì. I sometimes struggle to understand Zharr'n when she speaks" Tsa'peen said this with a slight smile, as she had often teased Zharr'n for her use of Aussie military slang, accusing her of not really being able to speak 'Ìnglìsì at all.
"Why do the tawtute speak so many languages?" demanded Maweypay. "It makes no sense."
"Why do the Na'vi only speak one?" parried his mate.
Alìmtaw smiled slowly. "The Na'vi no longer speak one tongue only. There are those that speak 'Ìnglìsì also. Zharr'n is one Na'vi who is so."
"As am I," agreed Tsa'peen, not looking abashed at all at being outwitted. Her eyes shifted left towards her sister of the tsumuke'awsiteng. "You haven't started telling us of your brother."
Zharr'n sighed. Clearly, she was not going to be allowed to remain silent. "I have to tell the story in 'Ìnglìsì," she stated to Tsa'peen. "The story will not be told correctly, if I tell it in Na'vi. Tsa'peen, you will translate, for Maweypay and Alìmtaw."
"Very well," said Tsa'peen. "It is settled. Begin."
Sharon spat mud out of her mouth, the light of battle in her eyes. If she missed her chance to join SASR, the bastard who pushed her in to the confidence course mud-pool was going to regret he was ever born. She lifted her head, only to be confronted with the largest hand she had ever seen.
"Sorry about that," apologised a gravelly voice. "I slipped and knocked you in."
"Thanks," she growled, grabbing the open hand and hauling herself out of the mud-pool. The owner of the hand was quite possibly the biggest and ugliest man she had ever seen. "You didn't have to pull me out."
"You looked pretty pissed when you went in," shrugged the ugly man. He was of vaguely rectangular shape, looking as though he had been roughly chiselled out of a large block of granite.
Sharon said urgently, "If we get a fucking move on, we can still make the cutoff for the exercise." The rest of the intake had left them behind. There was no way she was going to fail at the first hurdle. Sharon had every intention of becoming the first slit in over a decade to make it as a chook strangler, if only to show her shithead of an ex how fucking useless he was.
"No wucking furries," said the ugly man. He looked at the next obstacle – a smooth timber wall around fifteen feet high. There were no ropes to hail themselves up. "Give me a hand up, won't you."
Sharon had only enough time to gasp when he grabbed her by the waist, and threw her up the wall. Much to her surprise she managed to hook an arm over the top. She knew what was coming, levered her other arm over and braced herself.
When the ugly prick launched himself into the air and grabbed her legs, she groaned, "How fucking heavy are you?"
"One hundred seventy kilos," he grunted, climbing up her body.
"Fucking hell," she swore. Sharon was sure the bastard weighed at least twice that. It was just as well that he hauled her up once she got to the top. Her arms felt like fucking jelly snakes, and would have been lucky to lift a VB to her lips.
They scraped in the cutoff time by half a second, but curiously enough the two were the only ones in the squad of ten to be passed through to the next selection round. It seemed that the instructors weren't evaluating fitness and speed – not in this exercise.
When they got five minutes rest, the ugly soldier said, "What's a pretty little thing like you doing in a place like this, Chinkers?"
Sharon snorted derisively. She might have the face of an Imperial Chinese princess, despite her fine blonde hair – many dick-swingers had told her so, hoping to slip her a length of beef, or to get their knobs polished – but she hadn't been told she was little since she was twelve. After all, she was six foot one. Then again, this bastard made her feel like a fucking Shetland at the starting barrier at Flemington.
"I"m pissing off my ex-boyfriend," she admitted. "He didn't make it through the physical."
"You too," said ugly face. "My boyfriend dropped me like a hot potato when I said I wanted to be one of T.H.E.M."
Sharon exclaimed, "You're a poofter?" She would never have picked it, but then her gaydar was as useless as a eunuch at a Hay Street fun parlour.
"Yep," he agreed. "Boof the Poof – pillow-biter extraordinaire, by name and by nature."
"Pleased to make your acquaintance, Boof," she replied, offering him a hand. "I'm Sharon."
"No, that's not your name," he corrected mildly. "You're Chinkers."
"Fair enough," she agreed, and they shook hands solemnly.
From then on they were inseparable.
"What is a poofter?" asked Maweypay curiously.
"You know that unlike Na'vi, tawtute do not mate for life," said Zharr'n.
"Yes," agreed Maweypay. He gave a curious look towards his mate Tsa'peen. She had said something of this to him once. Maweypay wondered how this could be possible, and could hardly believe it of her. She had assured him that she felt differently now, now that she was Na'vi. What had happened before, when she was human, no longer counted. She had told him a relevant tawtute proverb – 'what happens in Vegas, stays in Vegas.'
Curiously enough, there was a similar Na'vi saving.
"A poofter is a man who is only attracted to other men," explained Zharr'n. "He will never mate with a woman."
"Oh," said Alímtaw. "You mean like Txäremre'o?"
"Txäremre'o is gay?" asked Zharr'n, using the 'Ìnglìsì word. She shook her head in disbelief – Txäremre'o was one of the older hunters of the Ikranaru. She had always thought there was something a little different about him, but had never been able to put her finger on it.
"If 'gay' means the same as 'poofter', yes he is," commented Alímtaw drily. "Please continue with your story."
Sharon was pissed as a newt.
She was going to regret it in the morning. Then again, she had every right to be. A brand new sand-coloured beret was tucked under her left epaulette, displaying to the world she was a qualified chook strangler – the first slit to achieve that exalted position for over a decade. It had been a fucking hard eighteen months training to be frocked as an operator, and there was no way she could have succeeded without Boof's friendship.
The bar was packed to the gunnels.
"Hey, Ugly!" yelled a bubblehead. You could always tell the submariners. They were pale and arrogant, and absurdly proud of their dolphins. All they needed to qualify was the ability to memorise a whole heap of useless shit, and regurgitate it on demand. It was just a little bit harder to be frocked as a chook strangler.
"What is it?" asked Boof mildly.
"Does your girlfriend put a brown paper bag over your head when she fucks you?" yelled the bubblehead.
Sharon's head magically cleared. She turned and asked, "What did you say?"
"Hello, gorgeous," exclaimed the idiot. "Why don't you polish my knob? I'm a lot better looking than big and ugly here."
"Not for long," said Sharon, stepping closer with a friendly smile on her face. She rabbit punched the prick, feeling his nose cartilage fracture under her fist. There was an impressive spray of blood from his face, and he folded up like an old fashioned deck chair.
"Hey!" yelled a couple of the bubblehead's mates. One of them smashed his glass and drew it back, intending to take bloody revenge. Fortunately for Sharon, Boof's ham-like fist travelled a small distance – twice – and then there were three bubbleheads on the floor.
It was on for young and old.
She was never quite sure how she and Boof managed to exit the bar. They were both missing bark here and there, and no doubt had collected an impressive collection of bruises which would make themselves known in the morning.
"Fuck!" she swore. "That was fun." A strange expression crossed her face and she announced proudly, "I have to piss."
Boof looked up and down the main drag. There was no way they could get past a bouncer into a club or pub in their current dishevelled condition. Sharon would have to go in an alleyway.
The bubbleheads who started the dust-up – at least from Sharon's perspective – piled out onto the footpath, the one with the broken nose supported by his two oppos. "Good fight!" said one of them.
Despite the adrenaline rush of the brawl, Sharon was still drunk. "I bet I can piss higher than any of you pricks," she giggled.
Knowing he was onto a good thing, the other bubblehead said, "I bet you a green Monash both of us can beat you."
"You're on," she said. Sharon turned to Boof and said, "I need you to protect my virtue from the fish boys."
Boof rolled his eyes. It was going to be one of those nights.
The alley was dimly lit, as such alleys nearly always were. Boof was duly elected the holder of the pot and the competition was on.
"Do your stuff, fish boys," said Sharon.
The two conscious bubbleheads whipped out their tackle, and soon produced impressive arcs of recycled lager splashing against the wall. "Beat that, girly," said one of them with satisfaction.
Sharon laughed and dropped her daks. She positioned her fingers carefully, wriggled briefly from side to side, and then groaned in near ecstasy, "Ahhhh."
"Holy crap," exclaimed the other bubblehead. "We've done our dough."
"Trajectory, volume and duration," said Boof, impressed in spite of himself.
Sharon giggled as she pulled up her pants, "You have a go, Boof. Double or nothing."
"Yeah," said the first bubblehead. "Can't let a slit beat blokes in a pissing contest."
The gentle giant suddenly grinned and said, "Why not?"
The arc reached spectacularly high, causing Sharon to swear under her breath. "You win," she admitted.
Boof was about to make a vulgar comment, when he was interrupted by the blowing of whistles. "The fucking provos!" he swore, tucking his gear in. "Run, Chinkers!"
He scooped up the unconscious bubblehead – the military police were the common enemy, after all – and ran down the alley, followed by Sharon and her two new friends. They thundered their way through a maze of winding backstreets, until they burst back onto the main drag, the provos still in hot pursuit. "In there!" shouted one of the bubbleheads.
They burst into the foyer of a richly decorated theatre, right in the middle of the intermission crowd, when something caught Sharon's eye.
There was a display of light and heavy infantry weapons advertising the latest round of Defence Bonds, complete with dummy ammo and mannequins in uniform. Sharon hurdled over the velvet ropes into the midst of the display.
"Chinkers! What the fuck are you doing!" shouted Boof.
"Charlie Gutser," she murmured, running her hands over a recoilless rifle. Sharon loved the damn things – they were awesome for rearranging bunkers. She hoisted it onto her shoulders and called out, "Boof, load me up!"
She was insane, but what the hell - in for a penny, in for a pound. Boof dropped the comatose bubblehead to the floor in an untidy heap and vaulted the ropes. As the foyer doors burst open, he hoisted a dummy round and called out, "Loading!"
The round slid into the recoilless rifle like a wang into a well-lubed twat. He flicked the barrel extension down, fastened it and bellowed, "Ready!"
There was a sudden flurry from the intermission crowd – women fainting and men screaming, or vice versa – as they realised that unexpected war had come to the foyer of the theatre.
"Range," called Sharon, taking aim on the troop of military police, who had frozen like rabbits in a spotlight. An 84mm anti-personnel round was enough to ruin anyone's day. It was probably a dummy round, but fuckups occurred every day in the army.
"Twenty metres!" shouted Boof, making sure he was clear of the rear of the weapon. The expelled gases from a fired round could easily take your head off. "Clear!"
She was well in the blast radius of the warhead, but Sharon didn't give a fuck.
"Fire!" she yelled, and pulled the trigger.
There was an audible click from the weapon, and two of the military police fainted dead away, while another turned a sickly green.
A slim, elegant man in a tuxedo stepped forth from the crowd and clapped. "Ladies and gentlemen, I give you the Special Air Service Regiment."
There was a sudden burst of applause from the civilian audience, accompanied by cheers and whistles. Sharon lowered the weapon and blushed.
The elegant man – his iron grey hair and neat moustache trimmed with military precision – continued, "This demonstration of extraction of wounded personnel under fire has been sponsored by the Department of Defence, for your enjoyment. I'd like you to thank the Military Police for providing the Opfor, and the Navy for supplying the wounded."
The sergeant commanding the detachment of provos knew when he was beaten. There was no way he was going to be able to arrest the bunch of deadbeats he had been chasing – not with this amount of publicity. He nodded, rounded up his men and departed the foyer to riotous applause, retaining his dignity.
"Who dares wins," said the elegant man quietly to Sharon and Boof. There was a small badge in his lapel – the badge of the chook stranglers. "Would you like a drink?"
"Would I what!" exclaimed Sharon enthusiastically. Running from the provos was thirsty work.
The manager of the theatre – for that was what he was – whisked Sharon, Boof and the bubbleheads into his office, and introduced them into the joys of single malt whiskey. It turned out he had been in the squadrons until he was seriously injured in a training incident some two decades ago.
They listened to his yarns and drank his booze for hours.
When they got back to barracks late the next morning, they didn't get far. The CSM was waiting for them, and before Sharon could blink twice, they were standing – or rather swaying – at parade rest in front of the Boss' desk.
He looked steadily at them for what seemed like five minutes without saying a word. Finally, he said tiredly, "No excuses?"
"No sir," replied Sharon, before Boof could speak.
The CO nodded slowly. "Confined to barracks for a week, and stoppage of pay. I hope it was fun. Next time, don't get caught on camera."
"No, sir," said Sharon, trying not to smile. There was going to be a next time. They drew themselves to attention, and snapped out a salute.
"Oh, for Christ's sake, sit down," said the Boss. From the expression on his face, he was well aware he would be having a large number of discussions like this one with these two. "Chinkers, Boof, you know we don't do spit and polish."
The two miscreants looked warily at each other and carefully took a seat each.
"Yesterday, after the frocking parade," he started, "I received a deputation of wives and girlfriends in this office. Given the nature of our work, they aren't too happy about having a woman on the teams. Especially," he continued, "One as good looking as Chinkers."
"They can get fucked," snapped Sharon. She had already been given the cold shoulder at family piss-up days – not that she had expected otherwise. "I don't shit where I eat."
"I know," replied the Boss. "Unfortunately, I have to keep unit cohesion. If the wags are unhappy, then the unit is unhappy." When Sharon opened up her mouth to make a pithy reply, he held up his hand to forestall her. "No-one expected that you would make it, Chinkers, so it was never an issue, not until now."
"But..." she started, only to be jabbed in the ribs by a meaty elbow from Boof.
"The gender equity foncs would have a field day if I transferred you out," he said, "So I can't get rid of you either. That's why you are being assigned to the same squad as partners, rather than being split up, like any other normal newbies. The unit psych suggested this would be the best outcome."
"Thank you, Boss," growled Boof, before Sharon could open her mouth and fuck everything up. "We appreciate it, and won't let you down."
"We bumped into the bubbleheads on HMAS Syme six months later, when our troop was inserted into the Spratlys for a snatch and grab raid," reminisced Zharr'n. "They weren't bad blokes, really, once you got to know them. Boof even hooked up with one of them for a few months."
"It is late now," said Alímtaw quietly, but with a smile. A bright gleam had appeared in Zharr'n's eyes, one that had been missing for many weeks. "We have far to go tomorrow, so we best get some sleep."
"Srane," agreed Zharr'n happily. She was tired from the story-telling, and despite the heat was looking forward to snuggling with her mate.
That first day set the tone of the journey – traversing the deep Pandoran forest, gradually rising higher and higher into the mountains, with each night spent around a campfire, when Zharr'n related more of the Amazing Adventures of Boof and Chinkers.
A large number of the stories seemed to consist of Boof hauling her out of trouble, trouble she had got herself into. Occasionally it would be the other way around, like the time she got wounded in the middle of her first tour in the Hindu Kush.
"Chinkers," said a soft, gravelly voice, cutting through the night air.
Sharon whispered back, "What is it, Boof?" His voice was unnaturally calm, so she swung around – not too fast. She had learnt moving her head too quickly while wearing the standard NGV monocular was a good way to cop a nasty dose of motion sickness. The unit furphy had it that they were going to be replaced with full-face helmets with integrated targeting and night vision HUD capability in a couple of weeks. Sharon could hardly wait – she had already read the training pam, and they looked awesome. As long as the battery life was to spec, that is.
The squad was high in the Hindu Kush on recon duty, tracking down raghead militant camps for later drone interdiction. Despite what the flog-offs claimed for their recon birds, there was no replacement for a well-trained pair of eyes on the ground.
Boof replied, "I stood on something. It clicked."
"Fuck," swore Sharon quietly. There was no way it would be a piece of wood, not up here above the tree-line. She eased carefully back towards her team partner and knelt alongside him, placing her weapon carefully on the ground.
"Other foot," he advised, when she started brushing the dirt away from around his left foot.
"Fuck," she swore again, after she had switched her target. Boof's right foot was planted squarely in the centre of a steel plate, only a bit larger than his impressive boot size. She reached for her throat mike and subvocalised, "Roachfucker Lead, this is Roachfucker Eight. Over."
"Eight, Lead," said the patrol leader. "What is it?"
"Boof is standing on the trigger for an IED," she replied, trying not to shake.
"Shit, Chinkers," was the more or less expected response. "Don't set it off. I'm fifty metres away from a raghead sentry."
What the fuck did the cunt expect she was going to do? Sharon gritted her teeth. There was no way they could airdrop in a couple of engineers to sort it out, not if they were in close contact with the jihadis. "I'll deal with it," she replied. "Eight, out."
"Don't be stupid," hissed Boof, who had heard every word. "Get out of here."
"Shut up, Boof," she whispered angrily. "There's no fucking way I'm going to let you get blown up. You're ugly enough as it is."
Sharon unfolded her entrenching tool and began digging alongside the pressure plate. Yep, there was another sheet of steel beneath it, with an air gap. It was an IED alright. She dug down a little deeper, uncovering enough blocks of C4 to make a hole in the world, and no sign of the detonators. They must be on the inside of the IED. "Fuck," she swore again. "There is a bloody huge wad under the pressure plate. I'll have to defuse the trigger."
Boof didn't answer, but she could tell he was sweating. For that matter, so was she.
The optical fibre camera attachment for her NGV showed her the truth. The pressure plate was resting on five el-cheapo push button switches – one near each corner, and the other in the centre. The wires ran down a hole in the centre of the lower plate. As soon as Boof removed his weight, the top plate would rise and the spring switches would close. Ker-boom!
"I can do this," she muttered. There was no sign of any sophisticated shit like a collapsible circuit. There was probably nothing more than a dry cell battery under the lower plate, just where she couldn't get at it. Simple, but effective.
Sharon reached for her med kit, extracting the super glue, and then pulled out her pliers. Carefully, she manoeuvred her needle nose pliers between the pressure plates, and slowly eased the cutting surfaces over a set of wires leading to a corner switch. She gently squeezed them, and heard a 'snip' sound. Good – she had only cut one wire. Next, she sealed the broken wire with the tube of superglue, to prevent bare wire from touching the pressure plate. She couldn't tell the difference between the wires, not with the NGV, so if the broken ends of one pos and one neg wire brushed the plate, it would be a really bad day. "One down, four to go," she whispered.
By the time she had disabled all the corner switches, the sky in the east was beginning to grow light.
"We're fucked, Boof," she whispered. "I can't get at the centre switch, not with pliers."
"How about a knife?" he asked.
"No," she replied. "There isn't enough room between the plates."
Boof swore, "Damn."
There was one chance left. "Boof, the pressure plates are pretty rusty. It's as dry as a wowser's date up this high, so this thing could be older than my great-granny. The ragheads usually use a dry-cell battery as a power source. If you throw yourself off the plate, there's a good chance the battery will be too flat to detonate the sucker." She didn't mention the alternative.
"Great plan," he said drily. "There's only one problem. My leg is so cramped up I couldn't jump over a fucking matchstick."
"Ok," she said, her mind racing. "Do you remember the last squadron touch football game?"
"Yeah," he murmured, "You took out Weevil so hard he ended up in next week, and you were sent off for rough play."
Sharon grated, "That's exactly what I'm going to do to you." She paused and touched her throat mike again. "Lead, this is Eight."
"Eight," was the response.
"There might be a little bang in a minute," she muttered.
There was a brief silence, followed by, "Acknowledged."
Sharon grabbed their packs and weapons, moving them down hill, and then walked about twelve paces past Boof, uphill.
"Ready?" she whispered.
"You're a fucking lunatic," replied Boof
"Go," she said, and took off like it was the fucking hundred metre sprint at the Olympics. Two metres from Boof she launched herself into the air, slamming her shoulder into his midriff. Sharon felt her collarbone snap from the impact, and they both went down hard.
There was dead silence.
Sharon rolled off Boof and groaned, "Oh fuck, it hurts! I think I broke my fucking collarbone."
Boof began to chuckle. "What the fuck were you worrying about? It was a dud."
"Quiet back there," came a muttered voice over the troop comm link.
The silence was broken by an almighty explosion, the edge of the blast wave ripping over the two troopers and raising a huge dust cloud.
They were both wrong. Although the bomb was old, it wasn't a dud. The power source wasn't a dry-cell either. Instead, it was a car battery, and still retained a hefty charge. The C4 had been packed around it, using it as a source of shrapnel rather than the usual boxes of nails and ball bearings.
The reason for the delay was simple. The spring on the central switch was corroded and fatigued. It barely had enough strength to slowly overcome the internal friction to close the circuit and explode the device.
Sharon screamed, grabbing at her thigh, trying to stop the spurting blood. A low flying metal splinter – formerly part of the bottom pressure plate – had slashed diagonally through her quad. The rest of the shrapnel had flown over them.
Boof rolled onto his knees. He took one look at the wound, batted Sharon's hands away, and yanked her trousers down. The wound looked clean. He grabbed her hands, pressing them on either side of the wound and shouted, "Hold it together! Are you hit anywhere else?"
Sharon shook her head. The crackle of gunfire echoed across the landscape behind him.
He grabbed the superglue out of his med kit, and squeezed it liberally over the wound. He prayed for it to set quickly, and then was surprised when Sharon unexpectedly removed her hands from the wound.
A raghead stood directly behind Boof, aiming his AK directly at her oppos back. Sharon reached for Boof's sidearm with her good hand and drew it from the holster. Her thumb automatically flicked off the safety as she raised the weapon. Sharon squeezed the trigger twice. The first round blew a hole right through his chest, while the second unnecessary shot removed the prick's face.
"What the..!" snarled Boof, turning half around. "Oh. Thanks, Chinkers."
"If anyone is going to shoot you, it's going to be me," said Sharon, trying to stop shaking.
"Nice shooting," said another voice. It was Weevil. "Who was it?"
"Chinkers," replied Boof.
"Nice," repeated Weevil, idly inspecting the corpse. "We're clear for the next ten minutes. Unless you're going to change teams and fuck Chinkers, pull her daks up and get her on her feet, so we can skedaddle."
Sharon gritted her teeth. "I don't do quickies."
Boof jabbed her thigh with some battlefield happy juice. The waves of pain receded, and somehow Sharon got on to her feet. That was the great thing about battle medicine these days. It still hurt like hell, but you didn't give a fuck about the pain.
"Chinkers," commented Weevil. "Has anyone told you what a great arse you have?"
Sharon lifted Boof's pistol to shoot the bugger, but was intercepted by Boof's meaty hand. "No, love. The prick isn't worth it. Besides, he owes you one for the footy game."
"True," she admitted reluctantly, giving up the pistol. She hauled up her daks and cinched the belt secure. "Give me my weapon."
Weevil picked up her assault rifle and handed it to her. "Were you really going to shoot me?" he asked curiously as she took a couple of tentative steps.
Sharon grinned. "You'll never know."
There was no dust-off for Sharon. The patrol was in almost constant contact with the jihadis from that point on. Boof rigged up a sling for her right arm, and carried her gear for the next week, while she hopped and stumbled along beside him. There were quite a few firefights, but no more casualties. At least on their side.
When they got back to the advanced firebase, she was whipped off to Central HQ by chopper, and planted in a hospital bed. The medical staff got sick of her toot sweet – she wasn't the best patient. It wasn't helped by her coming off an addiction to happy juice either. It wasn't supposed to be taken for more than a day or two, and she had been on it for a solid week.
A few days later, the Boss came along with some red tab.
"Hi Boss," she said. "What's up?" The stuff they were giving her to get over the happy juice was awesome. She looked at the red tab and asked, "Who's this fuckwit?"
The red tab looked shocked, although her CO wasn't surprised in the slightest at her language. It was how she usually talked anyway, and besides, her pupils were the size of wagon wheels. "Chinkers, you're being put up for an MG," he told her.
"I like my assault rifle," she objected. "Jellybean dispensers are too fucking heavy."
"Medal for Gallantry," corrected the Boss. "Not a machine-gun."
"Oh," she replied, showing no sign of being nonplussed at all. The stuff was really that good.
"Yes, Trooper King," said the red tab. She focused on his rank badges – fuck, he was a general. There was going to be a pineapple in her future. Without any lube, she bet. "The army wishes to acknowledge your bravery in saving Trooper Green's life, at considerable risk to your own."
She shrugged and her mouth opened, words coming out. "It was nothing. Boof is my oppo. He'd have done the same for me."
The general continued, "You'll be presented with the award after you get shipped back to Australia tomorrow."
Somehow, Sharon managed to smile, and say, "Thank you sir."
"Fuck that," she swore to herself, after the two former offcuts left. There was no fucking way she was going home without Boof. Besides, she hadn't been given her posting orders, and until she got them, she was obliged to return to her unit. Sharon wasn't some slimy rupert, slinking off at the first opportunity to get a cushy posting to Mordor. She was a fucking door kicker, and proud of it.
She waited until the corridor grew quiet before she slid out of bed and turned the monitor to sleep mode. A couple of quick motions removed the needles from her arms, and she was on her way.
Luckily, she had managed to change her pants before the dust-off, so at least she wouldn't get charged with being improperly dressed. It was a little difficult to drag her cams on using only one arm, but she managed. She offered up a prayer to some nameless roachie who had decided to replace laced boots with neo-velcro boots. Tying laces would have been a real bitch.
Her fucking shoulder still hurt, so she replaced the sling over the top of her flak jacket, and jammed her coal scuttle on her head. Too bad about her hair not being in its usual plait. One stop to go.
Amazingly, the corridors of the field hospital were empty. Sharon made rapid progress, until she found her way to the arms locker. As she tapped her code number into the keypad, a voice sounded behind her.
"What the hell are you doing out of bed?" snapped an irritated female voice with a strong German accent.
Fuck. It was the chief fucking turd burglar of the medical staff, and she was a real bitch, especially the way she clumped around on her prosthetic leg, expecting everyone to get out of the way of a poor helpless cripple. She wasn't even military – she was a fucking civilian on contract through the RDA, who seemed to have their fingers in every fucking pie now. Even here, high up in the Hindu Kush. Sharon opened the door of the locker and pulled out her combat knife. She turned to face her opponent and said bluntly, "Returning to my fucking unit. What the fuck are you going to fucking do about it?"
Sharon glared down at the short doctor, who glared straight back up at her. There were several seconds silence, until Sharon added, "Would you desert your post due to a little scratch like this?"
"No," answered the doc. A brief smile flickered over her lips, and she said, "Get your weapon and come with me."
The medico pulled her into a small room, shutting the door behind her. It was some kind of supply room. "You'll need this," she advised, shoving three boxes at her. "Going cold turkey off happy juice is not fun. Take one with each meal until you finish. Oh, and you'll need this antibiotic for the wound. Read the instructions, if you can."
"Thanks," said Sharon reluctantly, tucking the medication into a pouch. The doc might have been helpful, but she was still a bitch.
"Now get out of here," ordered the doc. "You never saw me."
Sharon knew she was onto a good thing, and did exactly as she was told.
Getting to the flight line was a snap. When she asked the movements sergeant about a flight to firebase Bravo X-ray, he pointed her to a chopper that was spinning up to leave. Sharon half-jogged and half-ran to the Samson, and swung into the cargo area. There was only one other occupant.
"Chinkers," sighed the Boss, as the chopper lifted into the air. "I suppose it was only to be expected."
"Sorry, Boss," she said, not meaning the apology at all.
At least Boof didn't get any black marks out of that little exercise.
When Zharr'n finished that story, she was surprised to see Tsa'peen grinning at her. "What are you smiling at?" she demanded.
"I can tell you the bitch doctor's name," said Tsa'peen, the 'Ìnglìsì words flavoured with her heavy accent.
"What?" asked Zharr'n. How could her sister know the name of that bitch?
"Doctor Sabine Fleischmann," said Tsa'peen. "It was me."
Zharr'n began to laugh, quickly joined by Tsa'peen. Maweypay and Alímtaw looked in puzzlement from one woman to the other, missing the punch line entirely.
"What were you doing there?" asked Zharr'n, after they stopped laughing.
Tsa'peen grinned. "I found my boyfriend in bed with his boyfriend when I came home from work early one day. So I resigned my job, left Berlin and signed up with the RDA."
"Can I ask what you two are talking about?" queried Maweypay.
"I'll let you answer this one," said Zharr'n quickly.
"Ahhh..." started Tsa'peen.
"How did Boof die?" asked Alímtaw, a couple of nights later, after she finished telling the story of her zero-g combat course – the bit about Boof and his experience with the relief tube was particularly funny.
You could hear the thunder in the heavy clouds on the horizon. The rainy season was about to break, and soon the four Ikranaru would be returning home.
Zharr'n had been dreading this part of the story for some time, but she was no coward. Instead, she clenched her fists, and started talking.
Sharon couldn't hear the incoming fire striking the chopper – the noise of the chopper blades and the chatter of her tribarrel were drowning out every other noise – but she could feel the rush of rounds brushing past her skin and plucking at her gear. "Get us the fuck out of here!" she screamed at the pilot, hosing down everything she could see. The grips of the tribarrel were slippery from the brains of the chopper door gunner – she was standing over his headless body. The unlucky bastard had caught a passion-killer on the flight in.
Still, she and Boof were lucky. They had been separated from the rest of the patrol, and pursued by a horde of ragheads for almost an hour, before this crazy son-of-a-bitch flog-off came and did a hot extraction. Even though he was full up with wounded. Boof was winged by a round ten feet from the chopper, and she had to drag his carcass into the chopper herself.
She was going to have to stand a few beers for this lunatic of a pilot, once they got back to the firebase.
Suddenly, the bird filled with smoke and started to spiral in. Sharon could hear the alarms from the cockpit, even above the noise of the shuddering engines tearing themselves apart. The pilot said calmly over the comms channel, the way flog-offs did when the shit had really hit the fan, "Brace, brace, brace. We're going in." Sharon did not release her grip on the tribarrel, only flexing her knees to take the hard impact.
The chopper didn't quite crash into the ground. The pilot had done a good job, auto rotating the bird in what the flight manual would call a controlled descent into a hard landing.
It still felt like a fucking crash.
Sharon picked herself up from the floor of the bird, and looked around. The smell of jet fuel was rank in her nostrils, and it looked like she was the only person still combat effective – Sharon could hear the pilot screaming in agony. It was time to get out.
A quick glance around the cargo area showed that the seven wounded were still alive. She grabbed the back of Boof's shirt and dragged him out. "Hey Chinkers," he said. "I'm putting in for a compassionate transfer to the Catering Corps."
"Can you still shoot, Boof?" she demanded of her teammate. When he nodded, Sharon tossed him her assault weapon and ordered, "Kill any ragheads you see."
She took a quick glance around. The pilot had done well – he had crashed the bird on the top of a hill, behind which was a sharp drop to a dry watercourse. There was only one easy axis of approach, so her immediate tactical situation was nominal – or it would have been if she couldn't see fifty plus jihadis moving towards her position – no doubt wanting to prove their manhood by cutting the throats of injured Western infidels.
They had another thing coming – Death was here, and her fucking name was Trooper Sharon Xiùlán 'Chinkers' King of the fucking door kickers, and she was going to be king of this bloody hill. There weren't going to be any easy pickings on the top of this shit pile.
Sharon dragged the rest of the wounded out, ignoring the stabbing pain in her left foot. It felt like the crash had broken a couple of bones. While she was recovering mags from the wounded, she keyed the helmet command channel. "Velma Actual, this is Roachfucker Eight. Over."
"Roachfucker Eight, reading you five by five. You are authenticated. Over."
"Am located on hilltop at grid reference eight niner six eight zero four zero five. Fifty plus ragheads approaching my position. Seven - no, eight wounded, I am only fully combat effective. Requesting immediate fire support. Over."
"Sorry, Roachfucker Eight. All air support is committed. The closest available is fifteen minutes out. Over."
She almost screamed down the line, "What the fuck am I paying taxes for! I want fucking fire support, now! Over." Flames were starting to lick around the chopper. She dove in and unmounted the port door gun – a GS-221 LMG. There was no point yanking out the tribarrel. There were less than twenty rounds remaining.
"You'll just have to stay alive, Roachfucker Eight. Will advise you when support is two minutes out. Over."
A few seconds later she flopped alongside Green, and shoved the LMG towards him. "Give me back my baby, Boof."
When he passed her assault weapon back, the heads up on her visor came back to life, and started picking up targets. "Tar, mate."
"Looks like the front door of Myers on Boxing Day morning," commented Boof mildly, cocking the LMG.
"Lots of bargains for everyone," answered Sharon laconically.
It seemed that the ragheads had geed themselves up, because they started yelling and charging up the hill, spraying bullets from the hip from ancient AKs – still the standard weapon of the freedom fighter after two fucking centuries.
Boof opened up with the LMG, firing short bursts at the clumped infantry, while Sharon steadily serviced targets with accurate single shots, leaving untidy lumps of clothing scattered over the lower slopes. The ragheads didn't even get halfway up the hill before they broke and ran back down.
"Hey, Chinkers," commented Boof. "I reckon we might live through this."
Sharon replaced her empty magazine and growled back, "Shut the fuck up, Boof. You'll put the mozz on us. There's a fucking mad mullah down there, promising them seventy-two virgins if they get to the top of this shitty hill."
Green chuckled. "You're safe then, Chinkers. I reckon you don't even have the box it came in."
"Too fucking right," she said. "Get ready, here they come again." She frowned. It seemed there were more ragheads than when they started.
The second assault went much the same as the first, but Sharon was right. There had to be over a hundred infantry clustered at the bottom of the hill now. "I don't like it, Boof," she said. "The ragheads are planning something. I want some cross-fire. Shifting right." She scrambled about ten metres to the right and flopped down.
"Velma Actual. Where's my air support? Over." she snarled.
Sharon didn't hear the answer. Suddenly, the hilltop erupted in explosions as mortal shells dropped in, throwing clouds of dust into the air. When they stopped, all Sharon could hear was someone screaming. Whoever it was had a high-pitched girly voice, when she realised it was her. She stopped, and the screaming was replaced by other sounds. But she refused to think about those.
This time the jihadis were already halfway up the hill. She started servicing targets again, but the LMG was silent. "Open up, Boof, you fucking slack-arse!" She shifted to three-shot bursts – the ragheads were closely enough packed that she was almost guaranteed a hit. Sharon glanced to her left when she swapped magazines, and wished she hadn't. Only half of Boof was there – a mortar shell had landed directly on his position.
The fuckers were almost on her. There was no fucking way she was dying on this ground. Sharon rose up, screaming her hatred and fear. Her weapon almost aimed itself, the barrel swinging from side to side as she vaporised the enemy. All too soon her last magazine was empty, and she dropped her weapon.
As her right hand fell down to smoothly draw her side arm, a jihadi screamed in English, "Die, infidel bitch!" He let off an entire mag at her on full auto. Not a single round hit her.
Her answer was a single shot in the middle of his forehead, a great spray of blood and brains splattering his Paki mates behind him.
"Roachfucker Eight, support is thirty seconds out."
The words made no sense to her. She fired like an automaton, just like she had been taught in training. Her left hand dropped down to pull her only spare magazine out of her belt pouch as the empty mag fell out of her pistol. It seemed the most natural thing in the world to slap in the spare, pull the slide back and continue firing, all the while advancing towards the enemy.
When the spare was empty, she dropped and rolled, coming up to her knee with a bloodstained AK in her hands.
The jihadis had had enough. They broke and run from this unkillable Angel of Death, this spawn of Iblis.
Still she did not relent, killing the fleeing enemy without mercy, until she saw a flash of sunlight on metal and glass out of the corner of her eye. Sharon dropped to the ground, while the hillside and valley below exploded with fire and thunder.
"That was my last mission," said Zharr'n. "Two days later everyone was pulled out. The RDA got the contract from the UN to clear out the jihadis, and that was that. I saw the nukes start falling on my chopper flight out." She twisted her hands together in anguish and said, "I spent three tours in that fucking hell-hole, all for nothing." Sharon did not say the cause of her real anguish, but all the listeners knew.
"Not for nothing," said Alímtaw quietly. He reached for her hand and squeezed it gently. "If not for your experience, you would never have come to our world, and I would never have met you."
"Yes," said Maweypay. "You brought the memories of your brother Boof to share with Eywa, and he will not be forgotten."
"What happened next?" asked Tsa'peen.
Zharr'n answered, "I took Boof home to his uncle in Karratha, and then I went back to the barracks at Swanbourne. It wasn't the same without him." She suppressed a sob, and continued, "The brass and the politicians wanted something to show for the casualties, so they had a big dog and pony show. That's when I got the VC."
"The brass wouldn't let me go back out on operations – too much chance of bad press - so I instructed for about eighteen months, until I got a phonecall from grandfather Zhong." She sighed. "It was probably just as well. I would have got the chop first time out. I really didn't care what happened to me."
"After I saw my grandfather, I resigned and contracted up with the RDA. Before I knew it, I was wearing a smurf suit and heading up into orbit to rendezvous with a starship."
Zharr'n did not sleep well that night.
The next morning, when Zharr'n rose from her sleep, she sighed, "It will be a long walk home."
"No, it won't," contradicted Alímtaw. "Why do you think we climbed this high?"
"Ahh, to get out of the heat?" she asked, looking curiously at her life-mate. He had been mysteriously quiet for the last three weeks, ever since they had left on this little jaunt.
He shook his head. "It is not fitting that the Tsahik of the Ikranaru and her sister do not have their own ikran. There is a climb to a rookery over the next rise – the rookery where all of our young hunters go to be chosen."
"What?" she demanded. "Why didn't you say?"
Alímtaw laughed. "You would not have come if we had told you."
"But I'm not ready!" objected Zharr'n.
Maweypay laughed also. "As Tsahik, you know all the songs, all the ways to ensure that you are chosen by your ikran. Now shut up, eat your breakfast, and climb."
As it turned out, neither Zharr'n nor Tsa'peen had difficulty in being chosen by their ikran. And flying was very like surfing.
Zharr'n thought at times, it might even be better.
When the four Ikranaru returned to their home on the clifftops, above the Eastern Sea, there was only one problem.
After they landed, Tsa'peen looked at Zharr'n and commented, "You don't look well, my love. Is everything ok?"
Zharr'n held up one hand for a moment, and then was violently ill. A couple of seconds later, Tsa'peen joined her in trying to expel her stomach lining onto the grass.
When the two women stopped heaving, they looked up at each other and realised something. It had been almost a month since they last celebrated Uniluke.
"Fuck," said Zharr'n, understanding what had happened.
Tsa'peen nodded in confirmation. "Exactly. We're pregnant."
They turned towards their mates as one, and drew breath. Somehow, through some shared male sense of danger, both Maweypay and Alímtaw knew that the next hour or ten was not going to be much fun...
THE END.