Life as a New Hire Ch. 26

She would have had a better time of it if, fifteen seconds into the fight, she hadn't heard Pamela taunting the second back-up opponent behind Caprica's back.

"Squeal you little bitch," Pamela mocked. "Squeal, or you're going to have a miserable summer walking around with your shoulders dislocated." Next.

There was a 'thump' followed by the sound of a body going down and something metallic hitting the ground.

"You cunts need to learn to count. Most unwise," Rachel threatened someone out of sight. Pop-pop and a woman screaming in agony.

"I warned you, Dumbass," Pamela chortled over the screams of her victim. "Cáel, let's put this pig to bed. I'm hankering for an early dinner." Pig meant Caprica. Caprica pivoted to keep us both in her line-of-sight. The woman who had started it all was back on the ground, rubbing her temple.

"What is your stake in this fight?" she addressed Pamela.

"You are a humiliation to our People," Pamela grew deathly quiet. "Cáel's stupid action should have been dealt with by you, his superior, not by your underling. She attacked him first. End of story. That should have been your only consideration as a leader. You failed.

You compounded that failing by attacking the wronged party. That you would consider us a burden, not as guests, is an even worse insult. You know our superiors in the Host have given us over to you as charges well within your capabilities to accommodate, so why are you presenting us with something far beneath any perceptible level of hospitality?" Pamela seethed.

"It is okay, Pamela," I sighed. "They hit like '****' anyway." That meant 'casteless' which in Amazon was the status a young Amazon held before joining a caste - aka 'little girls'. Pamela laughed.

"A League of their Own," she countered.

"Amelia"," I snickered back.

"Ouch! That's hitting below the belt," Pamela pouted.

"Excuse me," Caprica simmered. "We are still fighting here."

"Are we still fighting these swine?" Pamela asked me.

"I'm willing to call it a draw. I'm kind of thirsty. You?"

"Sunshine and applesauce," Pamela nodded. "I'd kill for a cocoanut smoothie. I mean that; I'd really kill somebody for a cocoanut smoothie."

"Oh, no," Rachel groaned.

"Alright you two, cut out the shenanigans," Rachel asserted herself in a loud, authoritative voice, "grab your bags and let's find out where we are sleeping tonight - then food. Hop to it!"

"Wait!" Caprica turned on Rachel. "We are not done here."

"Yes we are," sighed Rachel.

"I'm stomping out a campfire before those two turn it into a raging inferno that burns this place to the ground. Trust me, you can't win. None of us can. The best we can hope for is that they play nice in whatever corner of the room we can herd them into and pray they stay there."

"Jawohl, mein Sturmscharführer!" Pamela and I Nazi-saluted as one. I swear, we do not rehearse these thing - the thought appears and we blab it.

For the morbidly curious, we showed our respect for Rachel by referring to her as 'Sarge' (actually Sergeant Major because we both adored her) as well as backhanding the pernicious, poisonous Amazon racism/sexism we were blatantly facing by likening it to that of the Waffen-SS's Aryan Supremist doctrine based on blasphemous pseudo-science. We exaggerated that slightly, but not by much.

Caprica could have smacked me a good one as I walked past her, but what would have been the point? Pamela was right. By continuing to fight, all Caprica could have done was prove Pamela more right. Miyako glided our way, retrieved the 2 cm metal ball she'd pinged off of my driver's forehead...the reason the driver had fallen down the second time.

"Heinamachefrau?" Pamela suggested, indicating Miyako as we yanked our duffel bags free of the jeep. Whoa...my little closet ninja in a French maid's outfit...yum, yum, yum, yum.

"Let's not press our luck anymore today, Sundance," I faux-whispered.

"Got it Butch...oh, very clever," my mentor beamed.

"You are a butch Butch in lesbian country," Pamela gasped delightedly. "I love you. You are the best grandson I've ever had." Hey, I had to get her back for 'Unforgiven'.

"I accept that with all the sincerity that was intended," I bumped her.

"Pamela?" Rachel called out.

Her eyes went from Pamela, to the whimpering woman with the two dislocated shoulder.

"Damn it, Jim! I'm an unflappable pedagogue of dubious distinction, not a saw-bones," Pamela protested. I could hear DeForest Kelley rolling in his grave, or maybe that was a rockslide. We were close to the base of a mesa.

"Cáel," Rachel appealed.

"Fine...fine," I groaned. To Pamela, "I'll hold the Horta down, Bones. You apply the healing goop." Despite no goop being needed, my command made limited sense.

(Grumble) "Sixty-three years at the Academy down the drain. I've been reduced from a once-promising Cadet to a Freemason," Pamela hammed it up. I finally knew Pamela's age...maybe.

I had to wonder what poor Virginia and Delilah were going through. They were ratcheting down their reflexes from near-brawlfest to hearing us cracking jokes. They were nervously snickering at the word play...that no one else seemed to get and the spookiness was getting to them.

Despite the jocularity, Pamela took to her medical task with a purpose. She gave the poor woman the hilt of her own knife to bite on while cautioning her before fixing each limb. It was a rather calm, proficient and relatively gentle procedure. Pamela and I helped the Amazon stand, Pamela relayed some useful advice to ease the pain and off we went - beat-down at the shed still unresolved.

Domiciles were either caves carved carefully (so as not to project any telltale shadows - yep, paranoia) out of the mesa walls, or horizontal mine-like tunnels in the debris slopes at the base of the mesa - for things like the vehicle shelters. The caves dwellings housed four to twelve people depending on size and had indoor access to at least one 'chimney' - vertical escape ways.

Large mine shafts housed our rides (ATV's, motorbikes and horses along with our jeeps), an armory, sewage tanks (they collected their waste products then trucked them to different dumping points), supply depots and fuel storage (the farthest away from the main encampment). We changed from long-sleeves to short- sleeves and shorts. Copious amounts of suntan lotion and bug repellent were applied as well.

Each of us was shown a 'chimney' with handholds that led to the top of the mesa if necessary, plus a secondary route, should the primary be blocked/under fire. The same went for trails to the natural springs and underwater caverns and four different paths down to the flatlands. You only walked from the water sources to the flatlands in case of an emergency.

Everything had a designation - either a native plant, or animal. My primary chimney route was 'greasewood' - rumor had it being a curative for headaches and arthritis. My main water route was 'javelina' - that was a small, local, bristly, pugnacious pig-like creature. They offered to let me bow hunt one. My exit route to the flatlands was Arizona Alligator Lizard (AAL for short - I was still grappling with there being ALLIGATORs of any stripe in the Southwest DESERT).

We were also shown the places not to go - where the pitfalls, dead-drops, tripwires and 'blast zones' were. Blast zones were pre-prepared areas with an underground sprinkler system that would douse the field with some sort of flammable substance, then ignited in such a way as to surround and choke/incinerate those boxed up in the trap. They were cunningly placed to minimize fuel expenditure while maximizing carnage.

I was liking this place better and better. I loudly suggested to Pamela that dusting off our Klan robes and taking a midnight jog through Harlem would help us recapture this quaint 'Great Outdoors' experience when we returned home. Pamela amended my proposal. We should keep the hoods while streaking, to add some extra incentive to keep up a good pace. Virginia was beginning to crack.

"So, where do you live when you are not here?" Virginia asked one of our escorts. The woman gave her best deadeye stare.

"Do you speak English?" I prodded the woman.

"Yes," she grudgingly admitted. She was definitely from South of the Border.

My money was on a Spanish/German/Italian/Amerindian mix. Chile, or Argentina...maybe.

"Come on," I teased her. "Unless you live in the Vatican City, telling Virginia your nation of origin isn't giving anything away."

"My birth-hold is in Chile," the Amazon admitted.

"Hi, I'm Virginia Maddox. I was born in Knoxville, Tennessee," Virginia persisted in her attempts at conversation. "I had a high school boyfriend. He joined the Air Force - that is the United States Air Force. Do you have a boyfriend?" The Amazon gave me a nasty look. I was forcing the hospitality due any guest. She should have given it willingly and she resented it.

If a stranger walked up to an Amazon hold, they would be interrogated. The women's concerns were the mission of the person and the likelihood of others following. If your trespass was innocuous and you were traveling with no set purpose, they let you go. Despite my language, Amazons were not psychotic, or homicidal. They killed for a reason.

They didn't want outsiders to threaten them, to take their possessions, or endanger their children. Within those guidelines, they were passable hosts and decent neighbors - reference the early Swiss. In the same way they failed to empathize with other women, they knew not every man was on today's Hit List. If you were Greek, you were fucked - man, or woman.

If they offered you the safety of their home - welcome to the Old World. They felt obliged to feed, shelter and protect you. Why? Recall, through most of their history, small groups of Amazons traveled from their homesteads to Council meetings, or to bear the summons for said meeting. By extending courtesy, they hoped to receive it.

The concept behind karma is as old as mankind. In Amazon philosophy, wrath, revenge, curses and vendettas had their opposites - kindness, toleration, blessings and hospitality. Within their anti-social nature, the Amazons attempted that karmic balance. Boyfriends.

"My name is Priya Guerrero, of House Andraste," the Amazon answered.

"I have mated on multiple occasions. I have no daughters yet." Pause. "Who was Maddox?"

"What do you mean?" Virginia studied Priya.

"Virginia, Andraste is her true family name, the name of her first ancestor, and the name of the matron deity of her House. As a divinity, Andraste is the Celtic Goddess of Victory."

"Does she...do you believe you are the descendent of a goddess?" Agent Maddox started with me, then turned to Priya.

"No," Priya snorted. "That is a silly notion. She is my guiding deity. My first Mother was as mortal as you, or I. Are you a Christian?"

"Yes, I am."

"Ha," Priya smirked. "My goddess would never let herself be captured by men, much less judged and then crucified." At that moment, Virginia truly understood she was at the mercy of killer cultists. Sure, she'd read the reports. Staring into Priya's eyes revealed the true nature of the beast.

"Christianity is about toleration and forgiveness of sins, especially the sins of your enemies," the federal cop countered.

"Of all the resurrection cults, we find Buddhism to be the least abhorrent. Even that suggests that divinity is merely a trick of the mind," Priya stated with conviction.

"Unlike you and your blind acceptance that weakness is strength, the very existence of my goddess stands before us right now," she continued.

"You?" Virginia grumbled. That offended Priya.

"No - him," Priya pointed at me. Virginia glared at me. I held up my hands to protest my innocence.

"Is there a woman around here you haven't fucked?" she snapped.

"I...no, wait," I stammered.

"I have not mated with Cáel Ishara," Priya shook her head. "Fifty more days," she smiled at me. "What I meant was this - how many male Amazons have you heard of?"

"None," Virginia was expecting some sort of trick.

"What is he then?" Priya motioned my way. Virginia groaned.

"This is too bizarre," Virginia conceded. "Maddox means 'Son of Madoc'. It can also mean 'fortunate one'."

"The second meaning is more accurate," Priya nodded. "After all, you are here walking around and talking, thus fortunate to be alive."

"You would kill us if we showed up without Cáel?" Delilah tossed us her input.

"Without a doubt. I am an Amazon... (sigh). That means I've trained for over a decade in as many lethal arts as possible. It is why I carry weapons."

"Is it true you carry guns around without planning to use them?" Priya inquired.

"If you mean 'do I carry a gun as part of my job as a federal law enforcement agent', then the answer is yes," Virginia stated with trepidation. It was that 'old Martian' feeling - as if you were talking to a rational, intelligent person from another planet.

"Is it true that if you say 'freeze' and I stop moving, you will close to personal combat range instead of shooting me?" Priya appeared to actually be engaged in the conversation.

"Yes. It is part of 'due process' and not being 'judge, jury and executioner'," Virginia verbally tip toed forward. She felt she was making progress while speaking to an ESL (English as a Second Language) individual. Priya glanced at Delilah.

"Oh, not me Luv," the Brit exaggerated her accent. "If I think I can get away with it, I put two rounds - center mass - and another in the head." The rest of the discussion was cut short by...

"CÁEL!" a feminine teenage voice shrieked. Someone was sprinting right at me. Quick reaction time - stop Delilah then stop Rachel. In the midst of that, Loraine leapt on me.

I was knocked back when she rocketed into me, wrapping her bare legs around my waist and her arms around my neck. Somehow I managed to keep my feet. I was hampered in this endeavor by teenage kisses lavishing my face with underage fervor. I had to wedge one hand between us while resisting my instincts to get a free, oh-so-wrong, booby feel.

"I heard you were coming, but I didn't believe it," Loraine, Aya's eldest sister and Katrina's 16 year old niece, panted with far more passion than fatigue. "Aya wouldn't give up on you."

"This is a counselor?" Virginia questioned.

"No, she's a senior, casted student; Loraine Epona," Priya informed the crowd.

"Now we can be back to 'us'," Loraine purred. That was the sound of the prison dimension of Tartarus opening beneath my feet.

"There is no us!" I vociferously articulated. "There is no us!" Then the pack of mid- to older teens closed in as well.

[OKH] "Oh! Loraine, is this your male?" "He looks so sexy in those shorts." "You are going to share him, right?"

"Bubba, you've got some explaining to do," Pamela chortled.

"I swear on my desire to not end up in a Canadian landfill, or an unmarked grave, that Loraine and I have a purely platonic, and fully clothed, non-erogenous zone touching relationship," I pleaded. Loraine started laughing.

"Calm down, sisters," she giggled. "I'm teasing him. He is no one's male. He is my friend and a pillar of iron-will - I know. I've tested him."

"Testing in a purely educational, non-touchy way," I clarified. I swear, women keep looking for ways to torment me.

"If that is so, why did you just mug this man?" Virginia rallied.

"I want him, but he's incredibly evasive," Loraine grinned. "You are an outsider. Where are you from?"

"I'm Special Agent of the FBI Virginia Maddox," the fed glared. "Care to dismount the man I was having a conversation with?"

[OKH] "Have you created your first born daughter yet?" a precocious brown-haired teen asked suggestively.

"English," I insisted. "For the sake of our guests, I would ask my sisters to use English."

"To clarify for my young sisters," Priya addressed the gathering of twenty some 'girls' and four instructor/safari guides.

"This is Cáel Ishara, sister of House Ishara from Havenstone HQ," she enlightened them. Amazon etiquette placed me in 'a simple member of the Host' category. There was one slight flaw in the plan - caste, or my lack of one...kinda/sorta.

[OKH] "What do..." another girl, this one cocoa-colored with thick, kinky hair smiled up at me.

"Oh...Cáel, what do you do?" she corrected herself.

"I teach Aztec Calligraphy to the color-blind," I answered with convincing seriousness, "as well as plotting terrestrial asymmetric numerology as exhibited by Imperial Penguin breeding pairs."

"Hold on," Pamela insisted. "Hold on. No one say anything. I have to write that one down."

"That sounds fascinating," several voices murmured. I could 'feel' Virginia's eyes roll back in her head in a silent display of disgust - with me, teenage fan-girls, or both. I wasn't sure.

"Wait," Delilah stepped up. "Let me try this. Okay - okay. Cáel is a replicon Mephistophelian moppet facilitating a fascinus-based solar illumination system to replace current quantum logic clock technology."

No one knew what to make of that. Even my twisted, labyrinthine thought processes were hard pressed to understand everything she said in the proper context. Pamela and I took a step back on either side of her. We held our arms up high, then bowed at the waist in worship to Delilah.

"We are not worthy," me and my mentor chanted and bowed three times.

"You three, promise to stop it right now, or the beatings will commence," Rachel menaced.

"As you wish, Buttercup," I bowed to Rachel.

"I was always partial to..." Pamela stopped because Rachel really did look prepared to dispense some violence.

"But what does it mean?" Mona broke down before the chat petered out.

"It means you lot - Havenstone - are planning to use this young man's cunningly constructed tireless cock as a Sundial, Luv," Delilah smiled.

"Oh, I think we can find a better use for that piece of manly equipment than what you are suggesting," Loraine got one final tease in.

"Stop it," Rachel's voice slithered forth with a chthonic chill. Next stop - a major case of weapon malfunction/multiple people ending up in the infirmary. Thankfully for all concerned, it was approaching chow time and all the little groups began returning to the central camp area. Rachel sent Tiger Lily and Charlotte off to bed, now that we all knew basic security procedures.

Two events intruded between me and my rendezvous with Aya. First, I discovered everyone had on a series of patches. Being a Summer Camp, the girls had on a bunch more than the counselors. Still, one patch shown above all others: 'Camp Sahka Torchlight'. If you found yourself thinking of an Afro-American Jazz-themed playground, join the club.

Sahka isn't any part African. The Sahka are an aboriginal people. Since you are in North America, you would think Native Americans, and you would be wrong. There are tons of cool tribal names in the Americas...but apparently they'd all be rejected for a Turkish nomadic people who inhabit Northeastern...Siberia.

Torchlight? Rumor had it they ripped off some part of an Isis reincarnation ritual that had priestesses leaving a dark cellar/tomb/'not-even-associated-with-Torchwood' bearing torches they extinguished with the dawn. The Campies did it on special occasions...like orgies, or so was insinuated.

Camp? Well, one out of three ain't bad. Camp made sense which was an oddity in, and of, itself. What was Camp Sahka Torchlight? It was a scholarship camp for young ladies in the Lower-48 States Foster Care System. Okay...I couldn't find fault with that idea. Considering the chaotic jumble of neglected promises that is our childcare safety net, it was rather clever.

Have you tried to find anybody trapped in foster care? It isn't impossible, but it is a bureaucratic nightmare. For starters, why are you making your Freedom of Information Request...you get the picture. Havenstone cycled a never-ending stream of false girls and vacant foster homes through the government apparatus.