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Wolf In The Fold
by Antonia T. Tiger Chapter One In which Sergeant Wolf Baginski, of the Rain Island Army Union, has a shipboard romance, which reaches a startling conclusion. The popular image of the ocean liner is set by the great ships of the North Atlantic run, the “Greyhounds of the Sea”, unrivalled for speed and luxury. There are others, on other routes, but all share a certain sense of aristocracy. In the Baltic there are the German ships giving healthy holiday opportunities to loyal workers, but don't look too closely at the balance between “loyal” and “worker”. Any country with a claim to being important will have a liner, bearing its flag and flaunting national pride. Even Rain Island. But Rain Island, being the place it is, that hotbed of wild anarchists, does things a little differently. The SS Joe Hill isn't fast. She doesn't carry a few score passengers in the height of luxury, and the rest in cramped discomfort. She doesn't really hurry. And, every couple of weeks, the Joe Hill drops anchor in the Spontoons Lagoon, and fifteen hundred Rain Islanders, ordinary Rain Islanders, come ashore. Most have worked hard for the holiday, putting a little each week into some union-backed fund. Some do work that accumulates money faster, and if you want to pay you can get a really good cabin, and eat every night in the ship's best restaurant. And, while some people might mistake her for an outbreak of Baltic strength through joy, the Joe Hill did it first. And you can even say bad things about the Chief Syndic. Though what would really startle the Germans would be the branch of Bruin & Co, about half-way along the port side of the Promenade deck. The British would be aghast. The French would, perhaps, just chuckle. And everybody else thinks the Belgians will have credit accounts, except the French, who stop chuckling when somebody else mentions the idea, because it suggests the Belgians are, well, more enthusiastic. Bruin & Co, however discreetly it might be packaged as swimsuits and lingerie and that old medical half-myth of treatment for hysteria, sells sex. And all the necessary accessories. Three days outward, Sergeant Wolf Baginski, allocated his cabin on Army Union orders—there are always a few cabins held back for unexpected needs, and a Sergeant of Landing Forces is a better return on investment than an empty cabin—was rather glad that he was a superbly fit young bear, even if he did feel a little frayed at the edges. Sylvie was a very pleasant handful of a doe, but seemed insatiable. His regular five-mile run around the Promenade deck was almost relaxing. He ran quietly, and if one of two light sleepers stirred in their cabins on the deck below, nobody complained. He burned off most of the calories provided by the Joe Hill's cooks in those circuits, even if he was getting what sometimes felt like an excess of other exercise. Bruin & Co had books, too. Illustrated books, but written with a certain frank common sense, even if the pictures might be very useful to a lonely soldier. So, on the third day, when he made what was becoming his usual replenishment stop, he bought one, with what he thought might be the slightly silly idea of slowing Sylvie down. The staff at Bruin & Co are chosen for their discretion, and their ability not to embarrass customers. Even so, Wolf felt a little nervous as he left the store. “A fine young man,” observed the clerk, after the door closed. The assistant manager nodded. “The book surprised me a little,” she said. “I saw him last night, and they looked a fine couple.” She never asked questions, never tried to discover anything, but she had seen the young lady board, from an ambulance. “Shipboard romance,” she half-lied. Some of the people who travel on the Joe Hill really need a holiday, and maybe won't be able to wait. The next morning, some people noticed that Wolf started his run late. And seemed even more tired. There was an elderly ocelot who always took the same deckchair on the port side: he noticed. One of the Assistant Pursers, delivering the cash floats, he noticed, and felt a little more nervous about the amounts of money he was responsible for. After all, if something bad had happened, a Sergeant of Army Union Landing Forces was a good fur to have around. This time, Wolf stopped, leaning on the rail, looking out over the ocean, a few yards from the ocelot. Who, looking over the top of his magazine (a copy of “Thrilling Air Adventures”), noticed that the young bear wasn't breathing hard. After a moment, he enquired, “A hard night, son?” Wolf turned suddenly, almost into combat mode, and then took a deep, slow, breath. “Not a hard night, sir,” he said. “Not easy, either.” The ocelot held up his left paw. It was oddly stiff, in a leather glove, of a sort which Wolf recognised. “I was one of the Mountain Boys in Twelve. They invited me onto the Transition Committee when the Army Union was set up.” Wolf started to stiffen to attention, and then forced himself to relax. “If you need to talk, son. That's all.” He set down his magazine and rummaged with his other paw in a waistcoat pocket. “Here, son.” He handed over a business card, with an un-gloved paw. “I'm sure you'll be able to figure out how to find me.” Wolf scanned the card. Of course he knew the name. The Transition Committee had been that important, bigger than any Syndic could be. And the Mountain Boys Militia had been special. Some said that they'd never quite gone away. And there were stories about Palmer and the Bureau of Investigation, and certain informal immigration procedures. A lot of Rain Island's military formalities have their roots in the British Empire, it's just how the history worked. So Sergeant Wolf Baginski, not in any uniform, merely came momentarily to attention and said, “Thank you, sir.” The ocelot nodded acknowledgement. “Keep the faith, son.” Wolf almost lost control for a moment, muscles twitching in his face. He nodded, and turned away to walk slowly along the deck. The ocelot watched him for a few moments, and then picked up his magazine. They were running a series about a Alfie, though the writer had made this one a grizzly, and had never mentioned the diving training. Parachutes! The ocelot smiled. One thing they were getting right: the Alfies never give up. “Hi, Sylvie.” She smiled. It was still easy to smile, but there was something about Wolf, more than his sexual performance, which was starting to make it difficult. “Good run? Or did I tire you out?” Wolf chuckled. “I ought to try to get more sleep,” he admitted. He looked at her. “Hey, what's wrong?” “Nothing. Everything.” She hugged herself and shivered. “Wolf, I've lied to you, and a pretty big one.” “I've noticed things,” he said. “Morphine. What I do, we get taught about it. What it does when you're in pain, and what it does when you're not.” He took a deep breath. “You're using medical grade.” She looked at him, the tension in his shoulders and the wariness in his eyes, but there was nothing she could call aggression. He wasn't condemning her. “Medical,” she agreed. “Pain,” she added. “Like the Doctors say, it's different without the pain, but it wouldn't make a blind bit of difference to me. Not now.” She focused on her breathing for a moment. It was something she had been told to watch. “I have something in my brain. A tumour. Slowly growing. I'm not going to see the Solstice.” Her hand twitched. “The Doc told me I might easily kill myself with the morphine, trying to cope with the pain. The Hospital Shaman told me that I didn't have to try to flee Death, but I should try not to embrace it.” He sat at the foot of the bed and looked at her. “Thanks for telling me.” He realised he meant it. She might have been an addict, and she could live a long time if she was getting medical morphine. It was controllable, and Rain Island was willing to give you the chance. And, if you were an Alfie, you knew that your friends would kill the pain, and you had that same chance if you needed it. He looked at her, and she didn't look any different, but now he knew he would lose her. “I was just going to walk out of your life, Wolf, but I couldn't abandon you.” He grinned. “It's not the Alfie way.” It wasn't going to be easy, he knew. “What about your family?” She blinked. “The influenza.” She sniffled slightly. “There's nobody.” He nodded. “That's why you got the last-minute ticket.” “Hey, Wolf, I found you. I could have been on the next trip.” No, he thought, picking out the tiny clues. He'd seen them in his mother. He hadn't been looking, but they were there. She'd expected to die in the Spontoons, on her own terms, knowing that the people here would treat her right. And he couldn't do less. The only words he could find were almost a joke. “I'm going to have Sylvie Baginski with me when I report to the base.” She stared at him. “You think I'd walk away from a hot little doe with a dirty mind like yours.?” “You're a fool.” He laughed, softly. “I'm in the Army Union Landing Forces. Can't be a fool, but we admit to crazy.” He looked at her. “We don't just walk away.” “And I'm going to die. Soon.” Wolf quoted what his Shaman had quoted when he had left home to join the Army Union: “Dieth cattle, dieth kindred, dieth self the same; But word-fame dieth never, for him who gains it well.” He looked at her. “I'm maybe on the fast-track to Valhalla, but you're part of my story, part of my word-fame.” He grinned. “And, yes, it helps that you're great in bed.” It almost seemed as though she wasn't going to answer, but then she nodded. “OK, husband, let's find a Shaman.” There's a lot of myth about ships' Captains and weddings, but there were two Shamans aboard the Joe Hill, who switched from a professional wariness of shipboard romance to almost enthusiasm when they heard the story, and saw the paperwork Sylvie had. It's hard to be enthusiastic about a dying bride, however pretty she looks., but they could see what it meant to Sylvie. And was hard for the new husband to smile for the photographer. Not all the passengers knew the details, they just turned up to witness and for the excuse to party, and some thought Wolf's pledge to be odd. Not the ocelot who stood for Sylvie's father, and not those who knew who the ocelot was. None of the rest were of any importance at all, and all that mattered was that Sylvie knew why Wolf said what he did, and she knew, in her heart, that she would be waiting on the Rainbow Bridge until Wolf came. And, that night, in one of the quiet pauses, she said to Wolf, “If you find a good woman, you treat her right. If she's good enough for you, I can wait for her as well.” “Kinky,” he'd said. Sylvie laughed, and Wolf thought that was a good thing to hear, even if the laugh was a little strained. But he knew that tomorrow was going to be awkward. He'd left Rain Island as a bachelor and the base wasn't expecting a married man. Well, neither had he. He'd skip the run in the morning, and they'd admire the view of the islands, and then he would have to do some fast talking. “You've done what?” Force Commander Blakeney, the Army Union Syndic in the Spontoons, didn't raise his voice. “Are you crazy?” “Probably,” admitted Wolf. “I asked Shaman Williams, of the Joe Hill, to come and brief the Base Shaman. Which is a bit of a dirty trick to pull on you.” Blakeney harumphed. “Somewhat,” he agreed. “And Sergeant Esterhazy? He was looking forward to having a potential replacement.” Wolf nodded. “Sir, my mother died of cancer. I know some of the signs, Sylvie hasn't got long. Started as one of those torrid shipboard romances, but no way am I going to abandon her. I hope I can work around it, but if I have to, Wolf Baginski, ordinary joe, is going to blow his savings on some cheap hotel room, and then bum drinks off of tourists for the rest of his short and miserable life.” He took a deep breath. “I like being a sergeant. Just being sent out here tells me I must be good at it. But, compared to Sylvie, it's nothing.” Blakeney said nothing, for what seemed a small eternity. “That, I believe.” He stood, a little wearily. “Sergeant, it's Thursday. I'm authorising you for unpaid leave until Monday morning, verbal order of commanding officer. But you will attend the Sergeants' Mess Dining Night on Saturday, with your wife. And, Monday morning, I'll have an answer I can put on paper.” He smiled slightly. “None of the usual things I'd say seem to fit. You're not the first sudden marriage I've had to deal with, but none like this..” Wolf shrugged. “I guess everyone thinks they don't have any other choice.” Blakeney nodded, and held out a paw. “Just...” He paused. “Oh hell, you're an Alfie. Ya have to be crazy.” Wolf grasped the paw in his own. Blakeney was taller, but Wolf had the bigger paw. “It helps,” he agreed. “Get back to your wife and have fun. This is the Spontoons, and they're good people.” “Thank you, sir.” Wolf stepped back, came to attention, and saluted. “A formal dinner? In the Sergeants' Mess. Wolf, I don't have a thing to wear!” Sylvie hugged him. “Part of the deal, right. I'm part of the Union, right.” “Right,” said Wolf. “Army Union, Landing Forces. We look after our own.” She was trembling slightly. “I really don't have the clothes.” “You will.” He grinned. “You ain't seen me in my finery.” The Base Paymaster knew where the good deals were to be had. He was your banker, and, formally, your executor, although custom left certain things to your squad to deal with, and if you wanted a present for your mother, or your wife, he knew where to get the good stuff. “Chan, Chan, and Cohen.” announced the shopfront, not far from the Casino. That was the English version. It looked to be repeated in Chinese. They were tailors. They had plate glass windows, and displays which were rather simple, in a way which focused your attention on the clothes. “You can't afford this,” said Sylvie. Wolf shrugged. “Tourist prices, and still low compared to Paris.” “Paris?” “I am assured that this is where you go for high fashion,” said Wolf. He gently guided his wife to the entrance and pushed open the door. It was the first time he'd been successfully ambushed since basic training, a group of pandas, of assorted ages, and two fairly young lynxs who had the look of brother and sister. And then the oldest panda jad stepped forward, and formally greeted them. “The Base Paymaster warned us you were coming, and we had already heard your sorrowful tale.” He bowed. Wolf cautiously responded. “May your all too brief time together be filled with an excess of incandescent joy.” He bowed again. “May good fortune be heaped on you and your family,” responded Sylvie. She grinned at Wolf. “I had a room on the edge of Chinatown.” Wolf and the panda exchanged slightly embarrassed glances. “Rachel, I think Mrs Baginski is your customer.” It was the lynx who stepped forward. Wolf mentally kicked himself for not spotting her as part of the Cohen part of the business. “Sergeant, I think we shall have time for a cup of tea, and we can discuss your uniform.” He smiled slightly. “It's a pity to spoil such a fine young man with a Quartermaster's uniform.” “I've made some adjustments,” protested Wolf. “Yes, and the work is competent. Your own sewing? You don't have the professional eye of a tailor. Your left shoulder is a little low, for instance.” The panda stepped back and looked over Wolf. “Now, don't worry. We're not going to bankrupt you. It will just look as though we have.” An hour later, Wolf realised that it would be very easy to get used to being treated like a Prince, and that scared him a little. Wolf was rather glad that they had booked into one of the more traditional South Island hotels, native-style cabins scattered through the jungle fringe. The place was gradually shutting down for the winter, taking a few less-intrusive tourists, and it gave them peace. Sylvie liked walking the trails through the jungle, but there was something heartbreaking in the way she sat amongst a crowd of local cubs, telling them stories. And then Saturday came. Afterwards, he wasn't sure what the biggest shock was, but the arrival of Sylvie's dress and his new formal uniform was high on the list. There were the two young pandas who brought the clothes, both very neatly dressed. No flash to it, but it was evident that this was quality tailoring. And it was the same for the new clothes, though Sylvie's dress definitely had the flash. It was red and black, with trim of silver thread, and Wolf felt sick at the though of the cost. It flowed around her like falling water. And one of the pandas had done something with Sylvie's hair, a lop-sided braid that lay on her shoulder and somehow became part of the waterfall. He had the feeling that she had taken too much morphine. There was something odd about the look in her eyes, but he knew it would wear off through the evening. “Now, Sergeant, there is your uniform. You have your jump boots ready?” It was not, strictly, according to regulations, but three months ago he had completed the parachute course, and like every other jump-qualified Alfie in the world, all one-hundred seventeen of them at last count, he'd be wearing the high-leg jump boots, pants bloused out at the top, and anybody who called him improperly dressed could just yiff themselves. And his boots were ready. His highly polished, slightly stiff, parade jump boots that he had spent half the morning working on, while Sylvie had talked, almost aimlessly. She had brains, he'd known that within the first hour, and she saw things. “You're marking territory, for your tribe.,” she'd said. “And for yourself. In here.” She tapped the side of her own head. He'd paused, and looked up at her. For a moment she tensed, and then added, “And that brooch is a marker too. One you'll let people see.” Everyone did it. Brooches. Cufflinks, Tiepins. The uniform regs even had something to say about it, in case you were married to somebody in the service. Married, not anything less formal. So Sylvie was wearing a brooch based on the Landing Force badge. She was wearing his mark tonight, and... “Anything wrong, sir?” “Just...” He sighed. “My wife,” he said. Such a simple thing to say, and so loaded with power. He had almost balked at the silk underwear and long socks, even after the story about British naval officers a century before, and how the surgeon could use the silk to draw back the soft lead bullets of the time. And the rest of it, it was almost too much. He looked like a Rain Island version of one of those soldiers on an English box of chocolates. He looked like he'd blown a year's pay on tarting himself up. Except it wasn't. He'd seen the bill, The fabric didn't feel different, The badges, the insignia of the military world, they were standard. They were his medals. He glanced down. His boots too, dammit! Sylvie had gasped when she saw him, which helped some. She spent most of the ride, riksha and water-taxi, telling him how she knew he was the real thing. It all helped. By the time they reached Moon Island, he could just about cope with the sight of Force Commander Blakeney, in formal uniform. And the lady with him, a Naval Aviator, was almost certainly his wife. The Base Surgeon, and the Paymaster, and their mates. A ship's Captain who he hadn't met. He felt Sylvie's fingers tighten around his paw, and he took refuge, as Sergeants are able to do, in the formality of military courtesy. “Sir, Ma'am, may I have the honour of presenting my wife, Mrs Sylvie Baginski.” He'd hardly heard the conversation. The Base Surgeon was taking the lead, there was some sort of event on Casino Island. “They're raising some money for a motor ambulance, with some special equipment. Maybe even a radio, and they want me to explain things to the wealthy tourists.” He had looked at Sylvie, and simply said, “If you need us, we'll be ready.” Sylvie had nodded. “I sometimes wonder if I'm worth all this...” Crimson Otter, Blakeney's wife, said, “You're part of the Union, now.” She'd looked thoughtfully at Wolf. “Jump boots. You realise this no-good Alfie you married is in the habit of jumping out of perfectly serviceable aircraft?” She had a small badge on her uniform—she was qualified to fly the plane, and that was a bit different to the usual work of a transport pilot. “So far,” said Wolf, “they've let me use a parachute.” Sylvie gave him a sharp glance, as if to say they'd better. And she held the look, seeing the fur who'd overwhelmed her, and rescued her. He'd pushed back the despair, just by being what he was, and doing what he did. If if he was that crazy, if he was so willing to dance with death, she'd dance the measures beside him, to that bitter last chord. And he'd told her what to expect tonight. She'd be, for a while, a part of his world, part of a Band of Brothers, and if he wasn't so sure of where that line came from, she knew it. “We few, we happy few,” she murmured. “We band of brothers.” It was Wolf's voice. “For he to-day that sheds his blood with me shall be my brother: be he ne'er so vile, this day shall gentle his condition.” “And gentlemen in England now-a-bed shall think themselves accurs'd they were not here, and hold their manhoods cheap while any speaks that fought with us upon Saint Crispin's day.” That was Blakeney. He smiled at Sylvie. “We are but warriors for the working day.” He paused. “Wait until you see Wolf and his mob coming out of the jungle: gayness and gilt all besmirched has nothing on them, But that's not tonight. Off with you and make the best of it. You're part of the Union, Sylvie.” She sighed. “Until the day I die.” “Army Union,” said Wolf. “Not Naval Syndicate. We have a Rule Zero.” “Rule Zero?” “Death will not release you.” Wolf ignored the others. “Army Union Landing Forces, Detachment Valhalla, that's what some of us call it, and the Shaman tells us not to be silly.” Slowly, she nodded. “So let's go and party. Good food, decent music to dance to. We're Sergeants, we know how to organise things.” He turned to Blakeney. “If you'll excuse us, sir.” “Carry on, Sergeant.” Blakeney watched as they walked along the pier, and up the gentle hill past sheds and workshops to the accommodation area. There was something about the way that Mrs Baginski was walking. “Morphine,” said the Base Surgeon. “She's taken a rather high dose, so that the pain doesn't break through this evening.” He looked directly at Blakeney. “Might be only days...” Blakeney nodded. “It's going to hit him damn hard.” “Great clothes: he's giving her a night to remember. Does the Army Union have a Rule Zero?” Blakeney shrugged. “Those Alfies are mad enough to.” There were muted chuckles. A Navy motor boat was coming to the pier. “Well, here's our ride.” “So, what will you be doing, Wolf?” “Stuff.” He snorted. “There are things which might happen, that I will not ever be able to tell you about. All you will know is that I vanished for a few days, maybe weeks, and I come back, unwashed and stinking.” He glanced at her. “And maybe I don't come back.” “It doesn't worry me.” Her smile was slightly strained. They both knew who would die first. “And you'll be training, I expect. Like your running.” “Yeah. I'm also qualified as a Combat Diver and as a Parachutist. I spend time on the firing range, and climbing mountains, and prowling jungles. But I'm here as candidate for the Detachment Syndic, which means a bunch of senior Alfies have looked me over, and I've been through some mind-numbing courses, company-level administration, and now all I have to do is convince the Detachment.” They paused. Sylvie looked over the housing, mostly longhouses. There was something different about them, and it seemed to take her far too long to figure it out. “They're bombproof,” she said. “Not really,” said Wolf, “but those berms are enough to stop bomb splinters. Much better than nothing,” He shrugged. “Not what I'd drop bombs on. Hit the fuel depots.” “The ships and planes might get home, but they can't fight without fuel.” Wolf smiled. Smart girl. “Which is why I train to blow up a fuel depot, or sink a tanker, and how to stop the bad goys doing it to us.” Sylvie hugged him for a moment. “I taught guys like you at the University, except they weren't like you. You can't do all this stuff without being smarter than the average bear. And they'd be pebble pimps, not stud ducks, anyway.” Wolf looked baffled. “You taught at the University?” “Geology,” she said. “I reckon you'd make a great stud duck.” He wasn't sure it would be a good idea to ask for a translation. “Come on, Wolf, you promised fine food...” “Yeah. They hire in a chef from one of the top hotels.” He briefly visualised a map in his head. He doubted a stud duck could do that. “Nearly there.” “So you're the young fool who is going to delay my retirement?” The bear held out a paw. “Esterhazy,” he added. “Is that so bad?” Wolf and Esterhazy clasped paws. “There are worse postings.” Esterhazy grinned. “And this is the lady we've all been talking about.” He seemed to shift from a Rain Island Jekyll to a Central European Hyde, maybe even one who didn't drink... ...wine. And he hardly seemed conscious of it. “Ma'am, it seems I shall have to forgive your husband.” “Oh, and he was so worried.” Sylvie managed a passable curtsey. “Well, m' dear, he wouldn't be here if they didn't think he was rather useful. But I fear Percy Blakeney has slipped up.” “Percy?” “It is his name.” Sylvie giggled. “Go on, please, but there is a book you should read.” “Well, he may have thought it made a difference that you hadn't formally joined the Post, but, Wolf, you're the junior Sergeant, and that makes you the Mess Vice-President, and that means...” “Oh bugger!” “...your wife gives the toast to the Army Union.” Sylvie took a half-step backwards. “You bastard,” she said, in an entirely ordinary, unexcited, tone of voice. “Wolf, go and get the Sergeant a drink. And one for yourself. I'll have a fruit juice. Go on.” She chivvied him away with a paw gesture. “Now, Sergeant Esterhazy, I am sure you are too much of a gentleman, and too good a soldier, to embarrass me and the Army Union. So talk, and talk fast.” Wolf headed for the bar. “Ma'am, I was a Százados in the Magyar Királyi Honvédség. Both you and your Wolf already impress me. Now, the form of the toast is as follows...” “Mr Vice President,” said Esterhazy. “Mr President.” Wolf bowed his head, hardly more than a nod. “May I ask my wife, Sylvie, to offer the toast.” Wives, or husbands, not less formal relationships. “Please do.” Wolf half turned. “Sylvie?” “Of course, husband.” She smiled. “Are we not one?” She paused then, and took a deep breath. Over by the door to the kitchen, Chef Joseph folded his arms and watched, wondering if he was watching a legend, or just a very romantic story of doomed love. And then Sylvie spoke. “Mr President, Ladies and Gentlemen, I was, before I came here, afraid of what might happen. I was afraid for Wolf, because of what I had done. I was afraid for Wolf, because of the doom that is upon me. But your kind attentions tonight have soothed my fears, and led me to realise that we all, in one way or the other, are subject to the same doom. We all die, and leave loved ones behind. Yet I have learnt that we are not left alone. Those of us who may be left behind, we can be sure shall not be left alone. O death, where is thy sting? O grave, where is thy victory? For I am, as you have revealed to me, a part of the Union.” She paused. “It cannot be, you may understand, that I offer this toast with joy, for I am already in the shadow of death. But it is with deep and fervent gratitude that I do so. Mr. President, fellow members, I give you...” And her voice seemed to strengthen. “...The Army Union.” Wolf was certain, as he drained his glass, that those words were for him, but they were good words for anyone in the room. Chef Joseph turned back into the kitchen, muttering about onions. Sergeant Esterhazy, veteran of three armies, if you counted the Mountain Boys Militia apart from the Army Union, nodded quietly. She understood, perhaps better than he did, because she was looking into the eye-sockets of Death. And this was the Spontoons. But why did it have to be a woman like that? Why the waste of such a life? next |