Read Traitor, Book 1 of The Turner Chronicles Page 29

  Chapter 16

  "Turner. What a surprise. Have you finally realized that I have better things to do with my time than to stand around waiting on you?" Aimes' face was uncharacteristically pleasant. His lips almost curled into a smile.

  Aaron reopened his eyes and slowly stood erect. Legs swaying, he saluted. "Making up for being late the last time, sir."

  "At least you show respect sometimes," Aimes observed. "You may be the golden boy, Turner. I may not be able to get you under my thumb yet, but I have more than one way to make you miserable. Remember that." He peered at Aaron narrowly. "You sure took a beating since I saw you last. Somebody must have had too much of your insolence." He smiled, making Aaron think of a shark chasing chum. "Good for them."

  "Sir!" Aaron shouted. It was as good a thing to say as he could think of at the moment because there was no getting on the good side of Aimes. All things considered, Sergeant Aimes was a pumped up, arrogant bastard. He had been forty-two when he joined the militia, an age far past that of the normal recruits. His hard assed no give attitude and the meanness of his soul had quickly raised him up to Corporal and then Sergeant. His inability to bend had kept him from rising higher.

  "There is a meeting in the yellow room in two hours," Aimes said. "That's nineteen hundred hours to people like me who do more than pretend to be in the military. Until then you can help Corporals Hill and Gore move your supplies."

  "Yes sir!" Aaron snapped a salute. He held his stiff pose while Aimes moved back from the open doorway, fuming inside because Aimes did not even try to hide his snicker. Aaron's fury rose at the man's attitude. It wasn't Aaron's fault that his salutes looked ridiculous. It wasn't his fault that his bad arm was a curled impostor lying against his chest.

  Feeling useless, Aaron watched while Hill and Gore slowly filled his arrival room. There wasn't much he could do to help the two Corporals. The job was not exacting, and they gladly let him act as a supervisor. Hill made sure to get Aaron's last three coins and Aaron secreted his presents for Sarah and Cathy in the supplies. Once done, Hill and Gore sat against the stack of goods and closed their eyes.

  Aaron no longer wondered why those two always seemed so tired. The truth was that they were always tired because they stayed awake most nights until far too early in the morning. Aaron definitely got the impression that they were in the Militia for no reason other than they had it pretty easy here. Since they were known as scam artists and connivers, they were the first two people Aaron had approached when he had wanted to cadge extra supplies off the base shortly after he began transferring over to Last Chance. The ease with which he had found these two made him wonder how many people in the Militia were here to further their ideals and how many were here because it was a relatively easy living. After all, it wasn't as if the Militia had to actually work to acquire their funding. General Field had been born with the advantage of owning two very rich parents. They were now long dead, but their money seemed to be more than sufficient for the General to support the Militia without feeling any financial pinch.

  After a bit his two helpers yawned lazily and rose to continue on about their business. Gore offered Aaron his room to nap in but Aaron had slept enough in his empty room so he used the extra time his early arrival gave him to visit the facilities and to get a bite to eat.

  When he sat down in the cafeteria he felt a lump in his back pocket. Standing, he fished it out and found that the refrigerator magnet from Keefer's had folded itself into a little ball. He had automatically put it in his pocket when he changed clothes at the service station.

  Curious, he saw that there was a neat fold bisecting it, separating Keefer's Custom Knives Inc. from the address. He smiled ruefully, shoved it into his front pants pocket where it joined the rest of the miscellaneous trash he tended to collect, and then he sat down to eat. Dinner, Salisbury steak on a metal tray, tasted like leather covered with mud. He ate two helpings because, basically, he kind of missed the flavor of institutional cuisine. As a rule, his stay in Last Chance was marked by one overriding factor. He never got the chance to eat really lousy food. Part of him desperately wanted frozen pizza in a cardboard box.

  Actually, eating two of the steaks was probably a good idea in and of itself. He was going to need lots of extra energy today. Keeping a string of lies straight and believable took a lot of effort and even more concentration.