Dean Ing - Single Combat

Scanned by Highroller and proofed more or less by Highroller.

PART 1: SEARCH & RESCUE

CHAPTER 1

The reverend Ora McCarty faced the wall in the most sacrosanct office ofInternational Entertainment and Electronics and watched a holo image of himselfsing an old inspirational: 'Rocky Mountain High'. It had airedor so McCartybelievedduring his Sunday morning program. From the corner of his eye McCartycould see the expression on the face of IEE Chairman Boren Mills. It was, inOra McCarty's jargon, nervous-makin'.

The holovised McCarty strummed a last chord on a sequined guitar, held thelast note, then winked from existence as Mills keyed his hand-terminal."Hey, you cut off my finish," McCarty said affably.

"Call me a music-lover," Boren Mills replied in soft derision."But don't tell me you didn't know that song is on the prohibitedlist."

McCarty turned to face the smaller Mills. "Aw, that's for Mormons! Thatsong don't tempt people to take drugs, no matter what they think in SaltLake"

"Do I have to remind you who subsidizes your gentile services?"Boren Mills snapped, his bright dark eyes flashing under heavy brows. "Ifthe church is liberal enough to support a mildly heretical preacher, the leastyou can do is exercise judgment with your material."

"Censor myself, you mean," McCarty grumbled. "Seems to me,you LDS folks"

"Correction! I'm a Congregationalist, Ora. Never, ever, linkme with the Latter-Day Saints."

"Well" McCarty's half-smile suggested that he was buying a politefiction, " those LDS folks are happy with my mission just solong as it's mainly country-western entertainment that don't take issue withanything they want said."

"Entertainment is my middle name," said Mills with deliberatesymbolism. IEE's middle name was 'entertainment', and whatever board memberstwice his age might prefer, thirtyish Boren Mills was IEE.

"Entertainment's what I gave my holo audience," McCarty nodded.

"Not with 'Rocky Mountain High," Mills rejoined, the receding veeof his widow's peak moving side-to-side in negation. "Your monitor has hisorders. Since my last name is 'Electronics', what your holo audience got was'In The Fourth Year of Zion'."

"The hell they did."

"The hell they didn't," Mills replied easily.

"I don't even know that piece," McCarty insisted, then formed asilent 'oh' of sudden enlightenment. Ora McCarty was still essentially atwentieth-century man in 2002 AD, coping with the technology of war-ravaged,Streamlined America. At times that coping was slow, and sullen. "You fakedme."

"Regenerated you," Mills shrugged the implied correction."Don't worry; thanks to us you never looked better or sounded half sogood. Want to see what you really sang?" The Mills hand, small andexquisitely manicured, held the wireless terminal, thumb poised.

McCarty shook his head quickly, both hands up in dismay. "Now that's anabomination, Mr. Mills. And what's worse it makes me break a sweat to see a methat isn't me." To stress his rejection, McCarty turned his back on theholo wall and faced rooftops of Ogden, Utah outside the smoke-tinted glasspanel. The giddy height of the IEE tower yielded a unique view; no othercommercial structure in Ogden was permitted such an imposing skyward reach.McCarty supposed it had something to do with the microwave translators builtinto the temple-like spire. Even in architecture, IEE suggested its sympathywith the reigning Church of Jesus Christ of the Latter-day Saints. Now that aMormon administration directed the rebuilding of an America whittled down byravages of the Sinolnd War, McCarty could condone such corporate cozening asgood conservative business practice. He let his eyes roam past the city to saltflats shimmering in late spring heat, to the tepid Great Salt Lake beyond, soimpossibly blue in the sun as to seem artificial.

As artificial, for instance, as his rendition of a song he'd never sung, oras his effectiveness as a man of God, when image-generating modules couldreplace him right down to the wrinkles in his shirt. Squinting against a glintof sunlight from the too-blue lake: "I wonder when they'll start fakin'the news," McCarty said.

"Oh,I suppose someone will try it sooner or later," said Mills,but McCarty did not notice the subtle twitch that passed for a smile. "Youcan't imagine how much it cost FBN to regenerate your little ditty." Itwas, of course, very cheap. "If it happens again, you'll pay the tab. Tryto curb your paranoid fantasies, Ora; as long as we maintain control of FBNHolovision, we won't often squander big money regenerating events."

Not once did Mills lie outright; as usual, his lies were chiefly implicit.

Reluctantly, McCarty faced Mills. "I guess the world isn't as simple asI'd like," he sighed, fashioning a shrug that ingratiated him toaudiences; awkward, gangling, suggestive of a reticent mind in the big rawbonedbody. "I appreciate your takin' your own time on this, Mr. Mills. A lot ofmen wouldn't bother."

"A lot of men don't succeed," Mills replied evenly, with a lighttouch at McCarty's elbow, steering him to the door. Boren Mills was one ofthose compact models that did not seem diminished when standing among tallermen. With a forefinger he indicated the needlepoint legend framed behind hisrosewood desk: SURPRISE IS A DIRTY WORD. "See that your programming peoplecheck your scripts from now on. We can do without any more surprises on the OraMcCarty Devotional Hour."

"That goes without saying," McCarty murmured.

"Nothing goes without saying," Mills replied. "That's theessence of written contracts. Read the prohibited list, Ora."

Damn the man, thought McCarty, and tried to respond lightly as hestood in the doorway: "You've made me a believer, Mr. Mills. If I lostnetwork support by stickin' a burr under the LDS's saddle blanket, I'd wind upso far out in the sticks you couldn't find me with a Search & Rescueteam."

"Nicely put," Mills grinned, and terminated the interview. Millswas still chuckling to himself as he returned to his desk, knowing that McCartycould not fully appreciate his own jest. If the federally-funded Search &Rescue ever did seek the reverend Ora McCarty, McCarty would notsurvive that search.

CHAPTER 2

Ted Quantrill was not yet twenty-one, Marbrye Sanger was twenty-four; andtheir entwined communion was as old as humankind. Their Search & Rescueuniforms lay near, boot-tips aligned with unconscious military precision. Hadthe lovers stood erect there would not have been a centimeter's difference intheir heights, for the long taper of her questing fingers was repeated in thespan of her arms, the extraordinary length of her legs. Yet many men would havebeen reluctant, viewing her naked splendor, to seek her embrace. Those longlimbs revealed the muscles of an athlete, the physical equal of the youth whoshared her delight. Only in the upper body could his sinew overmatch hers.

Presently she smiled for him, her eyes heavy-lidded through an errant lockof chestnut hair, and arched against him as she felt his thrusts quicken. Athis faint moan she pressed a forefinger against his open mouth, now grinning,teasing him, then reaching down with her other hand to milk his masculinity. Atthe same moment she made her eyes wide, her mouth a tiny V of innocence, browselevated as if to ask, 'who, me'?

Gritting his teeth, laughing softly through the pulses of his own climax, henodded back a silent, 'yes you'.

You, you and I, we together. They lay, mouths open to silence theirbreathing, her roan-flecked eyes interlocked with the startling green of his own.

Then he rolled slightly to one side, brought his right hand up, said insign-talk: "Idied. You?"

She would not lie to him about the little things. Signing in the bastarddialect they had learned while still in Army Intelligence: No.