It was probably only in the 80s, but Miles was uncomfortably hot, the underarms of his uniform soaked. He imagined little droplets of sweat congealing on his beard stubble, which he rubbed violently in irritation as he squinted at Jeremy in the afternoon sun.
Jeremy was saying something, but he just couldn't bring him self to care. They had reports of an internal disturbance in downtown Philly. They didn't know if it was the rebels again or just the basic bullshit anarchy that had become par for the course in the wake of the blackout, because, you know, people were crazy. Miles couldn't believe how just a few days of no power had led civilization to complete collapse…before he and Bass had tried to restore some semblance of order. Humans would tear themselves apart if you let them. That much was clear. But here in Philly on this sultry day in September they couldn't let people wrest away even a little control-not in the militia's own backyard.
Miles ran his hand down the center of his face smearing sweat and dirt, and he was quire sure, making him look like a motherless kid, who hadn't had a bath in weeks.
"We can't let these people shit in our backyard, Jeremy," Miles said suddenly. He had no idea if he was changing the subject, agreeing with his friend, or interrupting. He didn't care. "Fuck it's hot," he mumbled.
Jeremy was eying Miles with a sly smile. "So what are your orders, sir," he over-emphasized the sir to imbue it with a touch of irony. "No shitting in the backyard?"
"What?" Miles barked with unbridled annoyance. He shoved his sweaty hands in his pockets.
"Exactly. What the hell are you talking about?" Jeremy shook his head.
And then it happened. An enormous explosion in a shop down the street from the officers. They hit the deck behind a wagon as shards of glass rained down on the landscape like vengeful hail.
After a moment, the two friends eyed each other and leapt to their feet. People were screaming and a few appeared seriously injured. Miles jogged over toward the shop, where locals and militia joined together to immediately begin dumping buckets of water on the fire. He stopped along the way to offer his bandana to a women (who looked eerily like his deceased mother), gripping her calf in pain. He was helping her to tie it into place, when he heard:
"Sir!"
Miles squinted up to see a non-com saluting him. Instead of saluting back he kept tying, the panic passing and irritation resurfacing. "What is it, corporal?"
Suddenly the corporal thrust forward a person with a violent jerk. Miles stood up to get a better look.
"The bomber, sir. We found her detonating the bomb from behind that rise." He indicated said area, which was a surprising distance away.
"What-that rise?" Miles gestured in disbelief. "Impossible."
"No, sir. Sorry, sir," the corporal added, hating to contradict the general. "It's true."
Miles scrutinized more carefully the bomber, who was wearing a cap and considerable amount of clothing to hide what was clearly a small, curvy frame. She appeared to have dark skin and full lips.
He reached over and swept off her hat, while she glared murderously back at him. A mane of raven hair was unleashed. She shook it out with a defiant flourish. The woman appeared to be carved from marble-exquisitely gorgeous. Miles stood temporarily transfixed; in retrospect, his mouth might have been agape. Hopefully no visible drool. He was suddenly self-conscious of the grime on his face and the overripe smell emanating from his filthy uniform.
By this point, Jeremy had come over to observe the offender and took in Miles' ogling with a slight shake of his head.
"Sir? Should we shoot her on the spot?" the corporal asked, getting a little more into the situation. He put his hand eagerly on the Enfield musket strung over his shoulder.
"Corporal, you're dismissed," Miles replied with mild disgust. "Jeremy, hold her. She's dangerous. You never know, maybe she's got a bomb strapped to her." The corporal looked disappointed, but he snapped to attention, saluted with a polite 'General,' and scampered away.
"I'm not stupid enough to blow myself up," the gorgeous woman piped up.
"Uh-huh," Miles said drily.
Jeremy had her in a wrist-twisting grasp that looked painful for both of them. She squirmed, and Jeremy contorted.
"That was quite a bomb," Miles continued. He gazed off at the store, which was now only smoldering thanks to the impromptu firefighters' efforts, admiring her handiwork. He had to hand it to this woman-he hadn't seen a bomb like that since before the blackout. "You a rebel?" he asked pointedly. He took out his bowie knife to point at her chest. Intimidation never hurt.
She looked angrily down at his knife. "No," she answered huffily. "I don't work with amateurs."
"Oh. I see. Then who do you work with?" Miles smiled at Jeremy over her shoulder, who managed to return a grin despite his ongoing struggle to subdue the young bomber.
"I work for myself. I'm an…independent contractor. Nora Clayton," she finished.
Jeremy chimed in, "Nora Clayton, you're in a lot of trouble. People are executed for a lot less than blowing up a store on a crowded street."
"Didya kill the guy you were after?" Miles asked her, raising an eyebrow.
"I wasn't after a guy, I was after the store. My client wanted the competition taken out."
Miles nodded with a far off look again. "I gotta be honest here. I liked your bomb. Liked it a lot. Very nice indeed…" he trailed off, trying not to look Nora Clayton up and down. "You ever consider working for the militia?"
"I would never enlist in the militia. Fucking robots!" she snapped.
"I see. Excuse me. But that's not what I was suggesting," Miles continued, more bemused than upset.
Jeremy interjected, "Show a little respect. You're talking to General Matheson."
Nora twisted in Jeremy's grip, but she did look a bit surprised, maybe even impressed.
Miles had lowered his knife hand and was swinging it slowly back and forth. "No, I meant contract work. I'd pay you handsomely. There's not an artillerist in the militia who can do what you just did." Miles assumed his classic rogue slump that usually worked on women. He liked to smell slightly less rank when doing it, but hell, it'd have to do.
"So instead of killing me, you're offering me a job?" Nora asked incredulously. She didn't appear to be caving to his charms either.
"Seems that's so," Miles answered. "Make your choice, Clayton. But it'd be a damn shame to waste such beautiful bombs if you're capable of making more like that." He fought to keep his eyes from traveling down to her breasts. He may have glanced. God, he was in trouble.
Nora looked back at Jeremy. "Can I have my hand?"
Miles nodded, and Jeremy released it. She held it out-tanned with slender fingers. Miles grasped it, and his stomach actually lurched. Like he was a fucking teenager. Christ, how old was this woman? She looked scarcely older than a teenager.
"Come to our training camp tomorrow at 0900. There'll be a bag of gold in it for you," Miles finished. She nodded. Jeremy released her, and the two officers sauntered away.
Jeremy peered sidelong at Miles.
Miles resisted the urge to give his friend a shove. "Fuck you, Jeremy," he said instead.