Adeste Fideles - Chapter OnePage 14
Disclaimer: The names of all 'Space: Above and Beyond' characters contained herein are the property of Glen Morgan and James Wong, Hard Eight Productions and the Fox Broadcasting Network. These names have been used without their permission. All else is my own creation.
Rating: NC17 Language, violence and graphic sex.
Spoilers: None
Author: Vasalysa, with many undying thanks to Geek.
Mr. Santa (Working Title)
Chapter One
"Can't you get someone else to do it, ma'am?" The tall, silver blond man stood rigidly at attention, almost ram-rod straight. His body had not finished healing from the damage the AIs had inflicted and the pain from the healing injuries as well as irritation at the assignment made his voice sharper than usual.
The blonde woman behind the desk rose. "At ease, Captain." As he obeyed, an almost concealed wince drew her attention. "The fact that you are still recovering, Captain, is most of the reason I decided on you. The Angels have a mission to fly and you have not been cleared for flight duty yet." She stepped around her desk. "The commandant expressly asked for a member of this squad and, quite frankly, you're all I can spare. Even though you've been a member of this squad for less than a week, already I know that unlike some other members of this squad, you can keep your temper and you definitely look every inch the picture Marine. And that's what is needed."
He started to speak, but closed his mouth.
"Go ahead and speak frankly, McQueen. And sit down." She pointed to the chair.
Reluctantly, McQueen obeyed. "Captain Collins, I am not a suitable candidate for this task. Especially given what I am."
"That is not a factor this time, McQueen. This particular shopkeeper has no problem with Invitroes. In fact, he has several in his employ. And most of his customers don't have a problem either." Collins leaned back against her desk. "You're more likely to make it a problem if anything, McQueen. Don't make it an issue."
"Yes, Captain." He sat stiffly.
"Mr. Crosby says that you can drop your dress uniform off anytime and change there before and after your shifts." Collins frowned at his posture and raked a hand through her shoulder length hair. "Look, McQueen, you're all I have. Don't screw it up."
"Understood, Captain."
"For God's sake, McQueen, loosen up. It's not a death sentence to stand outside a toy store and collect toys for kids who wouldn't get any otherwise. No Marine has ever died from this duty."
"Yes, Captain."
"And try to look on the bright side, McQueen."
"Bright side, ma'am?"
"You aren't up north. Chicago already has 2 feet of snow and it's still snowing. The odds of it snowing here in Alabama are pretty remote." She was rewarded with the faintest of smiles. "Ah, so you do have a sense of humor."
McQueen gave a brief nod. "Occasionally referred to as either dry, satirical or wicked."
"Good to know. Look, McQueen, I know you're not happy with this assignment, but someone has to do it and I certainly trust you to do the job. Last year, I made the mistake of letting Harrison do it and half the toys were broken. He couldn't resist the urge to try them out. We had to make up the difference from our own funds. I don't want that again. It gets very expensive, fast."
"I understand, Captain."
At least he was not sitting so ram-rod straight, Collins noticed. "And a personal observation from my own time doing it. Keep a mental track of the kinds of toys donated. That way if someone asks on the way in what kind of toys are needed, you can recommend boy or girl oriented ones."
"Aren't toys unisex?"
Collins sighed. "Talk to Mr. Crosby at least an hour ahead of time. I'll let him explain. You start tomorrow morning at 1100. Your shifts are five to seven hours long, and you'll be going through Christmas Eve." From her desk, she took a folder. "Here's all the information, including Mr. Crosby's address." Handing it to him, Collins said, "Because of your recovering status, I've placed orders in there for you to take five minute breaks every hour. It's a good assignment for someone still injured."
McQueen rose to take the folder.
"Dismissed, Captain."
"Yes, Captain." McQueen managed a decent snap turn and left, the folder under his left arm.
Shaking her head, Collins wondered about the enigma she had been handed in the form of Captain T. C. McQueen. His file told quite a few things, mostly by the omissions. Twenty days in an AI POW camp, rescued by a team of Navy Seals. McQueen's medical report gave her a better than average idea of what the AI's had done to McQueen with their ruthless interrogation techniques. The haunted look in his eyes told her he had broken at some point and those mental wounds were going to take time to heal, much longer than the physical ones. But the Navy Seals had reported that it had been because of McQueen's attempt to escape for at least the second time that had enabled the team to break into the camp and rescue the POWs. The strength of will to continue fighting even after breaking told her he was one to keep in the squad. He would make an excellent Angry Angel.
What bothered her the most was the silent implication of the lead Navy Seal's report. This man Ross implied that not all the damage done to McQueen had been inflicted by the silicates. She disliked the idea that other POWs had taken advantage of McQueen because he was an Invitro. That was not going to happen in her squad. If she had to beat heads, McQueen would be treated decently and not taken advantage of.
****
McQueen slammed the folder down on his desk with a quiet snarl of distaste. He did not want to be on review before a bunch of shoppers, especially Christmas shoppers. Dropping down into his chair, he relaxed his posture completely, well aware of how much pain his body still radiated despite his quicker than normal healing abilities. Wryly to himself, McQueen admitted that he was in no shape to fly. Just that morning his physician, Dr. Stewart, had told him that he would not be allowed to fly for at least another three weeks to give his skull fractures and brain bruising the time to completely heal.
Damning the AI's, McQueen buried his head in his hands, grateful that his recent promotion to captain entitled him to private quarters. He absolutely needed to have some time alone after the experiences he had undergone. Even his shrink thought so. McQueen snorted at the ridiculous notion of a tank getting psycho-analyzed by a natural born and winced as still healing ribs twinged.
The urge to take a stiff drink rose and McQueen resolutely turned away from the sight of his small bar. Dr. Stewart had made it quite clear that any alcohol in his system during the next eight days and he would revoke McQueen's flying status for another two months. And McQueen wanted to fly desperately. It was the only time he felt truly free. So ticking off Dr. Stewart was not an option. He needed to stay on her good side and be a model patient.
Seeing his small collection of books in the large bookcase made him wonder who had transferred his things from his barracks. McQueen hated the idea of someone snooping through his meager belongings. He had so little privacy that every little bit was treasured.
A sigh and McQueen reluctantly rose to open the closet. Might as well get his uniform ready so he could take it out. He had no intention of wearing it and risking someone damaging it on the way.
Two hours of work and his uniform gleamed again. All of the proper insignia were in place, including his silver captain's bar. A captain barely a month and he had spent most of that time in an AI POW camp or the hospital. Today was the first day he had been allowed to leave the hospital for more than a few hours. Tonight he planned to listen to some Bach and relax without having to listen to other people complain.
McQueen turned his attention to the folder Captain Collins had handed him. Mr. Crosby owned the store which had been started by his grandfather nearly one hundred years ago. Specializing in children's clothes, furniture, and toys, the Crosby Child Store gave generously to children's causes and received loyal support apparently from its clientèle.
The store's address showed it to be roughly five miles from base on the border of the middle class area and the poorer section of town. A glance at the clock showed that it was 1300 hours. He might as well get it over with.
A taxi dropped McQueen off outside the store and McQueen shook his head briefly at the number of people going in and out at this time of the afternoon. A large box with a banner stating 'TOYS FOR TOTS' already stood beside the entrance. Hefting his clothes bag over his shoulder, McQueen took a quick look in the box. Half a dozen boxes were scattered about the bottom.
Braced for the noise of people inside, McQueen blinked in silent surprise at the relative quiet. Beethoven's Pastoral Symphony played and though the store held easily one hundred people, they spoke quietly. At the left rear of the store, McQueen saw a sign stating 'PLAYLAND' and a huge multicolored object that spiraled, climbed and crossed over itself. Through clear portions of the object children appeared and he decided it was some sort of gigantic toy for children to play in while their parents shopped. In the middle of the rear wall another sign read 'REFRESHMENTS'. The right rear corner of the store appeared to be the offices.
McQueen wended his way to the rear, noticing as he approached that the play area was actually behind a pane of plexi-glass with an airlock mechanism so that as children and their parents entered or left, the noise from inside did not escape. He spotted what appeared to be a very large kid getting up from the bottom of the slide and then realized that it was a father followed by his small son which he scooped up and swung around. Giving the huge toy another look, McQueen realized that it was built with the idea of parents also getting inside. It was a fascinating concept as he spotted several other parents playing with their kids.
In the refreshments center, more parents and their children waited in line to order food or sat eating. The general noise level was higher but not as high as he expected from incursions to shopping malls and the like.
McQueen stopped outside the office door and glanced in. Several men and women sat working on computers. None looked up to notice him. He opened the door and immediately the nearest young man rose.
"May I help you, sir?"
Looking the young man straight on, McQueen stated, "I am here to see Mr. Crosby. I believe he is expecting me. I am Captain McQueen."
"Oh, yes. Just one moment. Please wait here while I go let him know you're here." The young man turned on his heel smartly and trotted down the aisle to the rear where he turned a corner and disappeared from sight.
A faint giggle reached McQueen's ears and he schooled himself not to react as it was followed by, "Oh, this one is so much cuter than last year's."
The young man stepped out from the corner. "This way, sir."
McQueen followed and realized that the young man was an Invitro as the shoulder length hair swung aside revealing the neck navel. Before the young IV could open the wooden door at the end of the short hall, McQueen asked,
"Do you like working here?"
"Yes, sir."
"You're treated right?"
"Hm? Oh, yes, sir." The young Invitro grinned. "In fact, I'm going to college with the help of Mr. Crosby. He treats us like his children, strict but fair. Both of them work here as well, learning the trade from the inside out." He tilted his head slightly. "Why would a soldier be interested in whether or not I'm treated right here?"
"Because I am an Invitro."
"Ah, now it makes sense. Don't worry, Captain McQueen, we are all well taken care of here." The grin faded and a serious look entered the young Invitro's eyes. "Mr. Crosby also runs a halfway house for rehabilitating those of us who fall by the wayside as he says. A full time medical staff and Invitro shrinks to help us come out the other side." He gave a little shrug. "I'm one of those who came out the other side. I was bought by a whore house before I was born. After two years, I was a real mess, hooked on green meanies and unable to function in any normal capacity. I was dumped on the streets. One of Mr. Crosby's aides found me, bought my contract for pennies, and brought me to the halfway house. It took me six months to recover. I've been clean for nearly one year now. I'm working off the rest of my contract with Mr. Crosby. You can ask any of us here and you'll find that we all have the same sort of story. So, we work for Mr. Crosby and we show him and everyone who comes here that we can be just like them, hard working and willing."
The young man paused and McQueen could see the effort it took to stop talking. "I better get you in to see Mr. Crosby now, sir." He turned and opened the door. "Mr. Crosby, here is Captain McQueen to see you."
"Thank you, Derrick. Please come in, Captain." The voice was no longer young.
Behind an oak desk sat a lean black man in his forties. A square face with a ready smile. He waved toward the chair opposite him. "Forgive me, Captain, for not rising, but I met with some misfortune this morning. I sprained my ankle on my front step."
"That's all right, sir." McQueen looked quickly around for a place to hang his uniform. The office impressed him. The furniture appeared to be real oak, at least several decades old by their appearances. The six bookcases, the desk, the coat rack and the solid wooden chairs were well cared for, but he spotted the signs of real use over a long period of time. Areas slightly more polished than others, little dings and scratches accumulated over time, shallow spots where the wood had been actually worn away; all told the story. His eyes strayed back to the bookcases. He had to restrain himself from walking over to the books and start perusing them. Tucked into the corner of the room was a large settee covered with what appeared to be dark brown fabric.
"Go ahead and use the coat rack, Captain. Derrick, please inform Susan that I'll need the items I requested in about ten minutes."
"Yes, sir." Derrick left, closing the door, as McQueen set his dress shoes on the floor under the coat rack.
"Now, Captain, I was told to expect you by Captain Collins. She was good enough to give me some background about you." Crosby raised a hand as McQueen spun around. "Before you say something you'll regret, hear me out. She figured I needed to know a bit about you so I could help you understand some things. And she was entirely correct. I did some quick research on you. No prying into personal records, just the public records." Pointing back to the chair, Crosby said, sternly, "Sit down, Captain. I am not an enemy. I intend to help you, but first you need to hear what I have to say."
Slowly McQueen made his way to the chair.
"I understand that you were one of the unfortunates sent to Omicron Draconis. Only six out of your batch of thirty-four survived long enough to be sent back to Earth." Chin in hand, Crosby kept his eyes focused on McQueen. "You were sent directly from the facility to the mines, I take it?"
"Yes, sir."
"So you returned with no education to fit in here. A damn shame. I hate seeing such potential wasted." Crosby sighed and sat back. "You served some time at Port Riskin before enlisting in the Corps. Which I think is a good choice for most Invitroes. Any way, since enlisting you've done quite well for yourself, Captain. Even with the enforced stay with the AI's, you've risen faster and farther than any other IV in our Armed Forces. And if you keep your head and temper, you'll go farther. I understand and respect your decision to make the Corps your life."
Tapping his fingers idly on the arm chair, Crosby continued. "I have no doubt you've learned a lot since you returned to Earth, and not all of it was good. Humanity is a very flawed creature, McQueen, and sometimes it seems that the bad outweighs the good. Right now, though, is the one time a year that humanity in many places strives toward good. So I capitalize on it where I can. And I think this time you're going to be one of the things I can work with."
Crosby's gaze burned. "Have you read a lot of military history, McQueen?"
"Yes, sir."
"Drop the sir, McQueen. I'm not an officer and due to a medical problem, never was or will be." Crosby's jaw tightened momentarily. "All right. What happened on the Christmas' during the two World Wars?"
McQueen dragged the information out of his memory. "The fighting ceased for the day."
"Yes. Both sides, without talking to one another, agreed to a one day truce on that particular day. Troops from both sides met and exchanged items, drank together and sang carols. Then the next day they went back to killing one another. That is a belief system so ingrained in people that they have to follow it even in a war of such magnitude. So I use that belief system to try to educate my fellow humans. And because they have been indoctrinated with this belief their entire lives, they find themselves learning, slowly, but they are learning, here at any rate." Crosby took a deep breath. "Sorry, a tendency to pontificate arises occasionally. My father always thought I should be a preacher."
McQueen waited quietly.
"So, what does that have to do with you and your 'job' here? Some would say not a thing. I, on the other hand, well...." Crosby smiled. "By having you and the 'Toys for Tots' barrel outside, I am forcing people to remember that not everyone is as fortunate as they are. In fact, a great many people are not in the fortunate crowd, including Invitroes. My father instituted a policy that I'm passing onto my son. Those people who do not have a lot of money, but have children, can deposit money as they can in a special account with me throughout the year. Then when December rolls around, they find that the funds they've deposited are either doubled, tripled, or, in some cases, quadrupled. It depends on the circumstances of the family. No child deserves to go without a present of some sort on Christmas. So we do our best to insure no child in our area does."
A quiet knock sounded and Crosby called out, "Come." As a young woman entered carrying a manila envelope, Crosby smiled again. "Thank you, Susan. Just hand the envelope to Captain McQueen, please. Ah, and would you ask Derrick to arrange for my lunch to be in here?"
"He's already arranged it, sir." Susan smiled back at Crosby and then down at McQueen, her smile fading away as she handed him the envelope. "Anything else, sir?" Her eyes snapped back up to Crosby.
"No, thank you, Susan." As the door shut behind Susan, Crosby shook his head. "I've given up on getting her to stop calling me sir. But at least she no longer runs from strange men."
The envelope weighed somewhat heavily in his hands, McQueen noted, and whatever was inside consisted of several items of varying sizes and weights. As his fingers twitched toward the clasp, McQueen reined in his curiosity with difficulty. It was for his host to provide him with permission.
Crosby chuckled softly. "You've been taught well, McQueen. It's rare to see someone actually wait for permission before opening something they've been given. Go ahead. Everything in that envelope is yours. Permanently."
Struggling to appear calm and collected, McQueen opened the envelope, careful not to tear the paper. He laid each item on the desk before him. Two separate key cards, a pocket-sized book with a brown paper cover, a fan shaped box and several sheets of extremely fine paper. Opening the book, he found it was a copy of Sun Tzu's The Art of War, suitable for slipping inside a flight suit pocket. The box held five odd looking brushes covered in oriental letters, a small porcelain bowl, an equally small spoon, a partially carved interesting colored rectangular stone, a black stick marked with more oriental letters, and a large flat bowl like plate. Closing the box, he tried to hide a frown as he looked up at Crosby. "I don't understand. The book, it's perfect for taking on missions and I thank you for it. I've been meaning to get my own copy of it now for some time. But the rest of it..." He swept his hand over the pile, fingers not quite touching the items.
"I'll explain it all. First, the key cards. The predominately black one is to the store's front door. The other one will get you into my office." Crosby held up a hand to forestall McQueen's immediate attempt to speak. "Listen," he snapped.
Once McQueen had forced himself to sit back and nod once, his jaw tight, Crosby continued. "After talking to both Collins and Dr. Stewart, both of whom called me incidentally, I realized I had to change a few expectations. You are still on the injured list as your doctor so very forcibly told me. I expect you to arrive at least thirty minutes before your shift is to start, though I would prefer it if you were here an hour early. You are to take a five minute break every hour. On days when your shift runs through the lunch hour, you will take a thirty minute break at eleven and another one at one-thirty. You may spend these breaks here in my office. A light meal will be provided and you may relax and read any of my books you desire to." Crosby grinned at the startled look on McQueen's face. "Yes, I saw your interest immediately. I do not mind in the least. They are here to be read by anyone who will enjoy them. Now on days you're here during the dinner crowd, your dinner breaks will start at four and six thirty."
"Sir, this is..." McQueen struggled to find the words to express his astonishment and felt immediate regret that he must turn down such a generous offer.
"Nonsense, McQueen. I have my reasons for all this. I do not have to explain them to you, but I will give you a couple." Crosby held up his hand, three fingers extended. Bringing one finger down with every point, he said, "One, you are still dealing with the trauma of having been a guest of the AIs, and I seriously doubt you want to subject yourself to the mad crowds who will be cramming into the local eating establishments. There is a small kitchen that provides meals for all my employees and it is not a problem to add you to the list. Two, that odd looking settee over there is equipped with a massage unit which I can guarantee will help with the back pain you'll be experiencing. Three, I will be discussing whatever books you read with you, either before your shift or after it." Setting his hand down flat on the desk, Crosby added, "Finally, I was given the impression that while you are here, you are under my orders and this is the way it will be."
For a moment, McQueen bristled, irritated at Crosby telling him what to do, but he realized that mostly the man had merely restated his standing orders from his doctor. In addition, he was being allowed to do something he enjoyed, reading. He relaxed and nodded once as he forced himself to settle back into the chair.
"Good. Now that's out of the way, what are you doing tonight?"
McQueen hesitated, mostly from the desire to retain his privacy. "Nothing much, except relaxing and going to bed early."
"Good thinking." Crosby gestured toward the still unexplained items. "Then you should have time to try your hand at this. If you would go to that bookcase," he pointed to the one behind McQueen, "and bring me the fifth book from the left on the third shelf from the top, I would appreciate it. You are a bit more mobile than I am at the moment."
Bowing his head briefly, McQueen went to fetch the indicated book. "How do you know the precise location of the book?"
"I have a photographic memory. Until I actually talked to you, I wasn't sure which book would suit you best." As McQueen slid the book out and looked at it, he added, "It's the best one of the lot, it goes slowly enough at first so that you master the skills and has really good projects and ideas later on."
Looking at the title of the book, Learn the Art of Sumi-E: Japanese Ink Painting, McQueen thumbed open the book and glanced through the roughly two hundred pages, realizing that the box held supplies. "Why me?" he asked, raising his eyes to Crosby.
"To help you gain balance in your life. The military is going to be your life, I can tell that, but you need to balance the destruction aspect with the ability to create beauty. The kit is small, easily transported, and I believe will give you a great deal of pleasure. I like to be able to give people something like this."
Slowly moving back to his chair, McQueen shook his head. "This is all too much, sir. I can't accept all of this."
"Yes, you can. They are gifts, not bribes or anything like that. I like you, McQueen. Which is more than I can say about the last several Marines who have taken the post." Crosby smiled gently. "If you leave them, then they will just wait right there until you take them home with you."
"Home," snorted McQueen. "Four small rooms."
"But now that you're a captain, they are private."
McQueen nodded once. "It's been hard..." Realizing he was about to start blurting out things he would rather not talk about, he shut his mouth. After a deep breath, he said, "Thank you for the gifts. When the toy drive is over, I'll return the key cards."
"No, you won't. Feel free to drop in anytime and pick up a book or talk. It will be good to have someone of your caliber to talk to. You will find that some of these books the government is not exactly encouraging people to read." Crosby sighed. "I miss my wife greatly. She was a very intelligent woman with strong opinions. My children, though also quite intelligent, have not the life experience to be a challenging conversationalist."
"Whereas I have the life experience, albeit crammed into a short life." McQueen tried to feel anger, but could not dredge it up.
"You are also a very intelligent man, McQueen. Don't let anyone tell you otherwise. Use that brain of yours to advance your chosen career. Just don't blind yourself to life outside the military. Never stop learning, never." Crosby sighed and pushed away from his desk slightly. "Forgive me. I've seen too many people lock themselves into little boxes and, even when you remove the boxes, they continue to live as though inside them."
A strong knock sounded and the door opened before Crosby could speak. Stepping into the room, a young black man said, "Father, it's time for your medication."
"Thank you, Jeffrey."
McQueen rose, gathering up the presents and sliding them into the envelope. "I should leave now. I will be back tomorrow for my first shift.... early." He was rewarded with Crosby's smile.
"Enjoy yourself, McQueen. Remember, it is for fun and relaxation."
"Yes, sir."
During the taxi ride home, McQueen struggled to refrain from opening the envelope. The urge to study the Japanese art book was nearly irresistible, but he managed to resist until after eating dinner in the Officer's Mess which was a definite step up in the world from the Army enlisted mess he had eaten in at Port Riskin. Settling into a chair by the window, listening to Bach's Brandenburg Concertos, he cracked open the book, intending to read the first several chapters.
****
McQueen arrived back at the Crosby Child Store at 1400, frustrated by his attempts with the Japanese calligraphy the night before. Making his way to the back, he saw the store was just as busy as it had been yesterday. Crosby's office door was unlocked, so he knocked before entering.
"Ah, McQueen, good to see you." Crosby looked up from a computer terminal on his desk. "Feel free to make yourself comfortable. I'll be busy for a while. Have to find out what happened to a shipment of shoes."
Perusing the shelves, McQueen found a wealth of books and wished he could read them all. He brought out one on early twentieth century history and made himself comfortable on the settee.
The shipping problem had not been resolved when McQueen decided he better change into his dress uniform. As he picked up the carefully covered uniform, he wondered where he would change.
"Through there." Crosby waved toward the far wall and a door that McQueen hadn't noticed the previous day. "I put a spare razor out for you."
Twenty minutes later, McQueen stood outside beside the toy barrel, prepared to endure.
****
Venturing back into Crosby's office an hour later, McQueen hoped that the man would be able to talk to him briefly. He found Crosby still apparently absorbed with his computer terminal. With a sigh, he started to leave.
"What's bothering you, McQueen?" Crosby asked, without looking up.
"Gender specification of toys." He deliberately used as obtuse a description as he could.
Crosby chuckled and pushed back from the desk. "Wondered if you would ask. Well, girls tend toward things like dolls, tea sets, dress up, and other non-violent things. Boys generally go for cars, planes, guns, and other more violent things. Stuffed animals are always a good thing, bears especially. In clothes and the like, the colors pink, white, lavender, and green are usually associated with girls while blue, brown and black are normally boys. Does that give you enough to make suggestions?" He raised an eyebrow, still grinning.
"Yes, thank you."
****
By the end of his shift at 1600, McQueen felt exhausted and his back hurt as did his feet. He wondered how the hell the Marines who volunteered for the Rifle Corps survived standing on their feet for so long. The office was empty when he entered and he sank gratefully onto the settee, sighing with relief.
Crosby came from the bathroom a moment later, walking awkwardly with a cane. "Damned, but I'll be glad when this cast comes off."
"Why the cast if it's a sprain?" McQueen marked his place with a finger as he closed the book.
"I have a habit of overdoing it and making an injury worse." Crosby laughed sharply. "It's to keep me from managing to break my ankle. In some ways, I think I would have preferred that to a sprain. A break would have been walkable by now."
"I can't imagine being laid up with a broken bone for six weeks to six months." McQueen shook his head.
"Bone filler only became authorized for general use in 2047." Sitting in his chair, Crosby said, "So, how did your first stint go?"
"I'm glad to be off my feet."
Laughing softly, Crosby shook his head gently. "Ok, I won't ask further. But if you have any questions like you did earlier, I'll answer them."
McQueen shook his head firmly.
"As you wish. Now, for your information, since tomorrow is Sunday, it'll be light in the morning, but really pick up in the afternoon. A lot of people go to church in the morning and since it is the weekend after Thanksgiving, they're starting to panic about getting their shopping done in time. The closer we get to Christmas, the more rushed people will become. Bear that in mind, but do not hesitate to draw attention to you and the barrel."
Grimacing, McQueen glanced down toward the book in his lap.
"That is why you are here."
"I know. I just prefer not to be drawing attention to myself."
"Understandable. Don't let me interrupt your reading."
****'
By Monday afternoon, McQueen felt like he was settling into the routine fairly well. His notion was somewhat abused when a yellow school bus dropped off half a dozen children across the street. One of the boys caught sight of him and pointed.
"Hey, look, a soldier."
Another boy glanced at McQueen and shook his head. "Nah, it's just some dummy that old man Crosby dressed up and put out."
"How do you know that?" asked the first boy.
"It never moves." Even as McQueen frowned slightly, the second boy yelled, "Look, it's Batty Becky. Get her."
Three boys, including the two speakers, and a girl charged across the street, aiming for a spot behind McQueen. A light brown haired girl ran past McQueen with the others right on her heels. A hand grabbed her by the back of her shirt and down she went only twenty feet from him. McQueen hesitated on interfering, not wanting to get into hot water with irate parents, and while he debated with himself, Becky fought furiously from her attackers. Blood flowed from noses and scratches.
Something shiny bounced away from the fight and McQueen sighed as he saw that Becky was being systematically beaten by the boys while the girl merely held Becky down. The worse offender was the boy who had stated that he was a dummy and, with one hand, McQueen grabbed the boy by the back of his shirt, lifting him off Becky. The boy who hadn't spoken yet was seized with his other hand.
"That's enough," McQueen growled. "Fighting is one thing, bullying is another. Four on one is bullying."
The four aggressors stared at him with wide eyes, shocked at the fact that he had interfered. The first boy raised his chin and tried to sound defiant. "It's our business. Stay out of it."
"Being a bully is a bad thing. Do I need to find out who your parents are?" He saw Becky getting to her feet, holding a hand to her bleeding nose and trying to straighten out her clothes.
The threat of parents took the defiance out of the four. "No, sir," came quietly from them.
Setting the two boys down, McQueen said, "I better not catch you beating up on anyone else, let alone Becky. Now get out of here."
The four ran off and McQueen turned to talk to Becky, only to find she had disappeared. Looking up and down the street, he spotted her ducking into a bakery up the street. He shook his head at her apparent ungratefulness and spotted the sparkle of something on the sidewalk. Picking it up, he found it was a Marine lieutenant's silver bar, the clasp still on the pin. Tucking it into his pocket, he wondered why the girl had been carrying it.
The matter of the insignia slipped from his mind until he was ready to leave the store for the night almost three hours later. Stepping outside, dressed in his flight suit, he spotted the girl on her hands and knees where the fight had occurred. He studied her for a moment as she scoured the pavement. Not familiar with children's ages, he guessed she was maybe eight or ten. A dirt smudge covered her right cheek and nearly half of her shoulder length hair had escaped its confining pony tail. Spots of blood splattered her worn, thread bare blue jeans and her light blue short sleeve shirt. He grimaced at the thought that she hadn't gone home to change clothes. From the frantic way she was searching, he knew the insignia meant a great deal to her.
Crouching down, he held the insignia out to her, his fingers rubbing the well polished silver. "I found it, Becky," he said quietly. "Who's was it? Your father's?"
Taking it from him quickly, she glanced up, giving him a fast look at her brilliant blue eyes, before she stared down at the sidewalk. "No, Father was a scientist. This was Joe's, he was going to marry Mom, but didn't show up for the wedding. He was nice." Her voice barely reached his ears and the insignia was tightly clasped in her hand.
"Didn't you go to school today?" he asked, standing up and holding out his hand.
Hesitating, she stared up at him. She took his hand after a second. "Mom will skin me alive if she sees me talking to you. She hates Marines now."
"Not really fair to taint us all since one stood her up."
Becky gave a tentative smile. "I know, but she's really mad about it still. He paid for the church and everything, then didn't show up. Mom didn't even know what unit he was with or anything."
"Why haven't you gone and changed your clothes? You've got blood all over what you're wearing."
Her face closed up and her voice was tight. "I had to go to work."
"Surely you're still supposed to be in school." He frowned down at her.
Shoving her hands into her pockets, she scuffed her shoe against the pavement. "I only go to school in the morning. I have to work in the afternoon so we can eat."
"Surely you're too young to be working. Isn't there another way?"
"Mom won't work for one of the corporations. Says they are little more than slave drivers." Becky shrugged. "It's ok. I manage to do all my homework and all the really hard classes I've got in the morning. Mr. Constable is really nice. He lets me have any mistakes made, so at least I get enough bread and stuff to eat. I even get to take some home. See?" She held up a brown paper bag that bulged. "Tonight, we've got cinnamon rolls, too. They were a bit burnt, but once you get rid of that, they're fine."
"Becky, get away from him!" a shrill voice snapped.
"It's ok, Mom," Becky announced, looking past McQueen.
Turning, McQueen saw a woman, towing a very small black haired boy who looked barely able to walk. "Ma'am," he said quietly, not wanting to rile the woman further.
"I've told you, Becky, to stay away from men you don't know." The woman shouldered past McQueen, totally ignoring him as she stared down at her daughter. "What have you been doing? Just look at your clothes."
"It wasn't me, Mom, honestly. It was Dexter and his group. Again. He," Becky looked up at McQueen, "he pulled them off me. Thank you, McQueen."
"You're welcome, Becky."
Stiff backed, Becky's mother said, never looking him in the face, "Thank you." She turned back to her daughter. "Take Joey straight home. I have some shopping to do."
"Yes, mother." Becky sighed, but couldn't help smiling when Joey held up his arms, calling out, "Icky! Up, Icky!"
She picked the youngster up and chucked him under the chin. Propping him up against her hip, Becky quickly looked at McQueen. "Bye."
"Bye," McQueen answered as she walked away.
"Leave my daughter alone," growled the woman standing beside him. "Stay away from her."
"I have no intention of harming Becky." He straightened and stared down at her, feeling his face go impassive. "I rescued her from four other children. It is only natural that I am interested in who I rescued."
"Just stay away from her." Flinging her brown hair over her shoulder, she marched past him into the store.
Shaking his head at the woman's reaction, McQueen shrugged and turned his attention toward getting a taxi. Seeing the traffic congestion, he changed his mind and decided to walk back in the darkening day. The exercise should give him a realistic idea of his healing.