***
After two days of more-or-less very delicately avoiding each other, Olivia sat down before Suslov in the mess area. He looked at her with a startled relief that, he knew, showed clearly in his face. He watched her acknowledge the fact, then tuck it carefully away inside of her for later examination. “I will be back in approximately six weeks’ time,” she said.
“I had wondered about that.”
“My sensors now perform well enough to justify low-rate production.”
“Good. Will you now be working with other units?”
“Yes.”
“If I can, I will be here. If I cannot, please regard my brigade not only as your test bed, but also as your military home, even as your work takes you elsewhere.”
“I will do so. Thank you, my friend.”
He smiled at her, worn and weary and elegant as an ancient Japanese sword. “Be safe, my friend. When you see my sisters, both of them please, give them my love.”
At the other end of the mess area, Simonov was having breakfast with a comrade from back home in Petersburg, a sergeant with a nearby motorized rifle regiment. He watched his pal break off his conversation with him to stare at Olivia. “Your colonel could do better than that with the nurses. I mean, she’s not ugly, but she’s not really a woman.”
Simonov found himself getting angry. “Misha, she’s my principal. And she’s not like that.” He wasn’t sure what he meant by that, but he didn’t really care.
“Sure, you’re just being a loyal, politically reliable whisperer.” There was a first time for everything, Simonov thought in amazement, but a whisperer, not much better than a stool pigeon, was not something he’d ever expected to hear himself called. On the other hand, Misha’s colonel was famous for calling his soldiers dumb pricks and worse. Clearly, Misha was learning some very bad habits. Back in Petersburg, he had been a working class street tough, but not a dumb prick. Well then, fish rot from the head down.
“She’s an American engineer,” Simonov began cautiously.
“And we know what they say about American women.”
“Whoever they are, they aren’t here. The brigade thinks very highly of her. American television crap doesn’t count.”
Misha smirked. Simonov glared. He had known Misha for years, since he was a kid. What he wanted to do now was grab his head and acquaint it with the tabletop.
“Sure, the brigade thinks highly of her. For sexual services. I mean, beggars can’t be choosers. I certainly wouldn’t say no to her.”
The day this brigade lets an uncultured pig like you say two words to her is the day you become an American rock poet…
As Olivia began walking towards him to begin their final day, an idea presented itself to Simonov. He wondered if she could read his mind. Very likely. They had, in the way of people who spent a lot of time together in danger, gotten extremely good at picking up on the other’s thoughts. “Her Russian is better than yours.”
“I bet it is. Hey, Pah Pah Zhe. I mean, what’s she going to do?” Simonov grimaced at the invocation. PPZh was military slang for pokhodno polevye zhenya, or marching field wife. Then Olivia, alerted by something, came toward them. Simonov rose to greet her. “Do you know what he said about you, Doctor?”
“Please, sit down, Warrant Officer. Of course. I couldn’t help but hear.”
She gets it…
“My buddy’s lucky,” said Misha. “Working for you. I bet you’re working for him, though.”
Olivia looked down at Misha with mild curiosity, then turned calmly to Simonov.
She gets it!
“Friend of yours, Warrant Officer?”
“Yes.”
“Perhaps you could suggest to your friend that he stand in the presence of a woman he has taken such an interest in.”
Misha turned and gaped at him.
“Go ahead,” Simonov said cheerfully. “It could be a new experience for you.”
Misha grinned, then started to rise. The next thing he felt was Olivia’s right fist slamming into his jaw and the floor coming up hard in his back and his head. The next thing he saw was the two of them standing over him after Simonov dumped a glass of water in his face.
“You didn’t tell me she could hit,” he sputtered.
Olivia bent down, offered Misha her hand. He looked at it cautiously. It was her right hand. Slowly, he extended his hand. She took it. He had an instant to be startled by the strength of her grip before her left fist slammed into his jaw.
“Nice, Doctor,” Simonov said happily. “I hoped you would do that.”
“Didn’t you teach me that if he’s moving, shoot him again?”
“Got any more water?”
“No. But my tea won’t scald him.”
“Do it.”
Misha sputtered back to consciousness, angry and afraid and humiliated, then took in the fact that only Simonov was standing over him. “What the fuck did you let her do that for?”
“Let her? It’s not like she needed my permission. Only my telepathic encouragement.”
“I’m not going to forget this.”
“Hey…I told you she wasn’t like that.”