"New men," Ratliff answered. "This salty one here," he clapped a hand on Chan's shoulder, "is Chan. This is his second duty station. The dark one is McNeal, and the redhead is Dean."
"Ach, you are too skinny, my darlings," Helga crooned. "Helga vill fatten you up!"
"Beer and steaks, then," Ratliff ordered.
"Yes, beer," Juice cried, and then sang, "Beer, beer, beer cried the privates, merry men are we, there's none so fair as can compare with the fighting infantreeeee!"
When the steaks arrived, they completely covered the huge platters on which Helga served them. They were two inches thick, so tender and juicy they almost melted in Dean's mouth. He had never tasted such wonderful meat before.
"Where do they raise the cows this meat comes from?" Dean wanted to know.
"They're from reindeer," Ratliff mumbled around a mouthful, "the 'Finnis breed them special for eating." He swallowed and then chased the meat with a huge gulp of the potent pilsner that was another specialty of Helga's. "All the reindeer on this planet—there's more of them than people—are descended from three cows the first colonists brought with them, along with a sperm bank drawn from the herds that used to roam all over Norway back on Old Earth."
"You ever seen a reindeer?" Goudanis asked.
"Only pictures. They've been extinct on Earth for a long time."
"You'll see the real thing when we get out in the boonies. Let me tell you about reindeer. They're walking latrines with a clothing rack on their heads, and you get downwind of a herd, you'll wonder how such things can taste so good."
Gradually the other tables filled up with diners, some of whom nodded affably at the Marines as they took their places. Soon the air was hazy with pungent smoke from the large black cigars both the men and the women smoked, even while they were eating. The noise level increased and Dean found he had to raise his voice to be heard at their table. He didn't mind. They had finished two large schooners of Helga's beer each and he was experiencing his first alcohol buzz since before he'd enlisted in the Corps. He was also feeling warm, full, and very satisfied for the first time in more than six months.
Leach offered his companions cigars. Goudanis lighted his without hesitation, sucked in a lungful of acrid smoke, held it a moment, and then expelled noisily. "Ahhh," he sighed, savoring the flavor of the tobacco.
Dean had never smoked before. He couldn't afford tobacco back on Earth so he'd never picked up the habit. Goudanis flicked a small blue flame from a lighter, and when the tobacco started to burn, Dean sucked the smoke deep into his lungs, as he had seen the others do. It burned intensely and he began to cough uncontrollably.
Goudanis laughed and pounded him on the back. "We didn't know how to smoke either, before we came out here. Try it again. You'll get used to it."
Dean doubted he ever would—or that he'd ever stop coughing. He looked around at the other diners, but nobody seemed to have noticed his discomfort. A sudden wave of dizzy nausea passed over him and he thought he was going to vomit, but the feeling passed as quickly as it had come. Cautiously, he sucked again on the cigar, expelling the smoke through his nose. Well, it wasn't half bad that time, he thought. In the next fifteen minutes he managed to smoke half his cigar down. Leach and Goudanis, on the other hand, had smoked theirs only about a third of the way. They winked at each other as Dean puffed happily away on his cigar.
"Now, m'boy," Rabbit said, leaning conspiratorially across the table, "it's time to introduce you to Big Barb."
"No," Juice exclaimed in mock horror, "not Big Barb, no, no!"
"Yep," Ratliff said as he motioned for one of Helga's waitresses, a buxom young blonde, to bring their check. The entire meal cost twenty-five kroner. "Leave a fiver for Miss Haraldsson," he told the other two and got to his feet. Dean stood up too quickly and almost lost his balance.
"Whoa, there, PFC Dean," Goudanis cautioned as he steadied Dean with one hand. "Watch yourself tonight. The beer these people drink is mighty potent." Dean gave an embarrassed laugh.
Outside, complete darkness had descended upon the town and the temperature had dropped to a cool ten degrees Celsius. The brisk night air burned in Dean's lungs as he slowly breathed it in. Overhead in the clear night sky thousands of stars twinkled down at them. Being unfamiliar with the local constellations, Dean couldn't tell where he'd just come from, but he knew that not so very long ago, he'd been out there where the light from those stars had been generated hundreds of years ago. Now he was on Thorsfinni's World. When the light had started out from the star that had most recently shined on him, this place hadn't even been discovered yet. The thought made him catch his breath.
Dean never forgot that brief moment. He felt good, physically, but more important, he really felt good about himself. He was comfortable, with men he respected, and they were treating him as one of their own. And now they were off to see Big Barb, whoever that was.
Big Barb's was a combination hotel, bar, dance hall, bordello, and ship's chandlery and outfitter's that occupied a two-story warehouse along the waterfront. It was a favorite hangout for the Marines from Camp Ellis, as well as for the crews from ships in the harbor.
The "elephant" was Big Barb herself, one of the largest, most foulmouthed women Joe Dean could imagine. She did not allow cursing or fighting in her establishment, unless it was she who was doing them. And there was plenty of both all the time at Big Barb's. The fighting among her patrons was usually over the women, and the cursing took place over the prices she charged for use of the rooms on the second floor. Big Barb broke up most of the fights herself, and with great relish.
Big Barb did not waste money on decor. The dance floor was just a huge space cleared of tables. Patrons were served at the bar, beer only, in large earthenware mugs that cost nothing to produce but ten kroner if you broke one. Gambling was allowed and, next to the girls, was the place's chief attraction. Dance music was provided by the patrons themselves, those who could play some kind of musical instrument. Usually when one of the Marines danced with one of Big Barb's girls, they were serenaded by jeers and lewd comments from the other patrons. But nobody jeered when a sailor or two from one of the fishing boats danced a lively reel or hornpipe to a tune played on an accordion or a fiddle or harmonica.
Dean's first impression of the place was of the strong stench of stale beer. Only a few tables were occupied at that early hour. "Wait'll after midnight," Leach said. "Then this place'll be hopping."
A dozen men from third platoon had shoved two tables together near the bar and were well into many mugs of the powerful brew served there. Six of Barb's girls had attached themselves to as many Marines and were busy matching them drink for drink as one of the men sang a drinking song in a surprisingly good tenor.
I'm Cap-tain Jinks of the Space Marines,
I feed my men on flip and creans,
And sport young la-dies in their teens,
Though a cap-tain in the arm-y.
At the mention of Marines and army, the men around the table shouted catcalls and banged their mugs loudly.
The singer, Dean was astonished to discover, was none other than Staff Sergeant Bass.
"Get over here!" Bass shouted as he saw the three new men. "We've got some serious drinking to do before this night's over." He drained his mug with a flourish and wiped foam off his upper lip with the back of his hand.
Dean wondered if Bass had walked into town; he hadn't been aboard the bus. "Ahhh, you thirsty dogfathers," Bass shouted. "Beer, more beer for m'lads here." One of the women, a brunette and not that bad-looking, detached herself from her Marine—it was the missing Claypoole—and hastened to the bar.
"Beer, beer, beer cried the privates!" Claypoole shouted, and several others took up the song:
Beer, beer, beer cried the privates, Mer-ry men are we! There's none so fair
As can com-pare With the fight-ing infan-treee!
The song went on and on, through all the ranks up to colonel, with all of them shouting for beer, and when
they got to the chorus, every man stood up and shouted for beer at the top of his lungs. The bare rafters rang with the sound of their voices.
Face flushed from the shouting, and his heart pounding with the effort, Dean found a seat next to McNeal. "I see you've managed to fit right in with this crew," he commented.
"I fit right in," McNeal replied, nodding gravely. "I fit right in," he repeated. Dean realized then that McNeal and the others had been drinking steadily since they'd arrived at Helga's. McNeal was well on his way to a monumental drunk.
"Joe, Joe," Fred began. "You are my best friend in the world, you know that?" He put his arm drunkenly around Dean's shoulders and leaned into him. "You know sumptin' else? I fit right in here. Yessir, I fit in."
The girl returned with a dozen big mugs on a tray, and Dean snatched one for himself. Nobody said anything about paying, so he just started drinking. The beer was cold and powerful, rich, full-bodied. Dean glanced at McNeal and was surprised and embarrassed to see a tear forming in McNeal's right eye. "Joe, you know what?" Dean shook his head. "All my life people been kickin' my ass around, starting with my old man, and you know what? That's over now, o-ver. That's over 'cause I fit in now and I ain't takin' no more shit from no-body no more."
Three cigars and several schooners of beer later, Dean's head began to swim sickeningly. Quietly, he excused himself from the table and staggered outside. The cold air seemed to refresh him momentarily, and then suddenly the heavy food, the cigars, the beer, the excitement, overcame him and he vomited in the street until he gagged on a completely empty stomach. Passing Marines hooted and shouted encouragement, but for long moments Dean was just too sick to care. Finished, he wiped his mouth and eyes, straightened his uniform, and, feeling like a new man, strode purposefully back inside.
Sometime around midnight Staff Sergeant Bass called for attention. Big Barb's was crowded by then and the noise in the place was deafening, but at their tables in the corner, the Marines could have been in church, so rapt were they when their platoon commander spoke.
"Gentlemen," Bass began, "it is time I was leaving." The men protested loudly, but Bass held up a hand for silence. "No, I must now seek my beauty sleep."
"You'll have to reenlist to get that much sleep!" Leach shouted.
"Silence, you miserable short-penis dogfather wretch," Bass said, feigning anger. "No, I must depart. But first, our anthem."
Everyone stood. Bass sang in his clear, natural tenor, not a trace of beer in his voice:
We meet 'neath the sounding rafters,
The walls around are bare.
As they shout to our peals of laughter,
It seems that the dead are there.
The rest of the men joined him in the chorus:
Oh, stand to your glasses steady, We drink to our comrades' eyes.
A cup to the dead already, And hurrah for the next who dies.
Dean couldn't sing the song with the others because he didn't know the lyrics. He just stood silently taking in the ritual. He knew a lot of beer had been consumed that night, but he also realized something very special was going on, a tribute to friends who'd been lost in combat. He understood this and sympathized with the veterans, but since he had not experienced that loss himself, his heart was not completely in it—not yet. As the song went on, the crowd in Big Barb's began to grow quiet, and soon the only sound was the voices of the Marines singing. Before the song was done, several of them were crying openly.
The other patrons, and even Big Barb herself, remained silent for several long moments after the Marines had finished.
Chapter Eleven
In the fifty-two years Fleet Admiral P'Marc Willis had been in the Confederation Naval Forces, he had never seen anything as terrible as the sight before him in the dusty schoolyard.
"It is far worse in the outlying settlements, Admiral," Jardinier Dozois, the portly Confederation Consul, whispered beside him, a handkerchief clamped firmly to his nose and mouth to keep out the smell of putrefying flesh.
Almost overcome, Admiral Willis cleared his throat before speaking. He gestured helplessly toward the heaps of tiny bodies littering the yard. "How could something like this happen?"
"Too many mouths and not enough food—and the rebels," Kismayu Merka answered, virtually spitting out the last word. A small brown man with a black goatee, he had been president of the Republic of Elneal for only two months, thrust into the job after his predecessor's assassination. Unlike the arrogant tribesman who had preceded him, Merka immediately requested assistance from the Confederation upon assuming the duties of his largely ceremonial office. And Admiral Willis had come. That request for help had been the only time Merka had had the courage to make a political decision on his own.
The horribly mutilated children had been dead long enough for decay to swell their tiny bodies obscenely.
When the Admiral's party arrived only a few moments before, aides had to chase off carrion-eaters—fliers and crawlers—that were feeding greedily on the corpses. Innards and severed body parts lay everywhere, interspersed among piles of tiny corpses, two hundred or more of them. No ordinary person could possibly envisage what had happened here, the Admiral thought.
The fierce sun beat down oppressively on the small party. The Marine major commanding the Admiral's security detachment whispered into the mouthpiece of his headset, checking the dispositions of his men about the perimeter of the school. An oppressive silence hung over the group. Small dust devils swirling about the schoolyard only momentarily obscured the clouds of insects busily feeding on the bodies. A bright piece of cloth fluttering in the breeze caught the Admiral's eye. It covered what had once been a little girl, her now hairless skull covered with the remnants of parchmentlike flesh drawn tightly over the delicate bones of her face. The eye sockets were empty cavities; the scavengers had fed. Her arms had been hacked off. Ashes to ashes, the Admiral thought. In another day or so only bones would be left.
"The relief workers ran out of food and medical supplies more than a month ago," President Merka said. "We could not help them. What you see here is multiplied many times over throughout our poor land. The parents of these poor babies brought them here because they were dying themselves and hoped at least their children might survive with the help of the foreigners who ran this place."
"Not many crops were put in during last year's planting season," Dozois added. "And much of what the farmers could get in was destroyed or confiscated by the rebels. Their 'scorched earth' policy," he said bitterly, "seems to be working better than even they could have hoped."
"What happened to the adults who ran this place?" Admiral Willis asked.
The other men were silent for a moment. "Dead," Dozois answered shortly.
"How?"
The Consul paused before answering in a quavering voice. "By the rebels. Dragged out of their beds in the middle of the night, tortured, mutilated, nailed to crosses, and burned alive over there, on the other side of the swings. Then the scum ran amok among the children. No one found out about this massacre until yesterday..."
The Admiral stared at Dozois.
"They were all young volunteers from other worlds in this quadrant," Dozois volunteered. "Good kids. Our people, Admiral," he added softly, meaning they were citizens of Confederation member worlds, not natives of Elneal, which was only in protectorate status. Elneal had always been a wild and dangerous place. Things like this happened there from time to time, but until recently, only on a much smaller scale.
"The rebels are Siad, the most important of the warrior tribes," President Merka said. "These," he gestured helplessly at the bodies, "were the children of farmers and city people, less than human in the eyes of the Siad. They killed the foreigners because they were foreigners, but they killed these children as a civilized man would exterminate pests." Obviously President Merka himself was not of the warrior tribes.
Admiral Willis was about to reply when a cadaverous man about the Admiral's own age cleared his throat. Larg
e perspiration rings stained his expensive shirt beneath the armpits, and when his snow-white handkerchief wasn't blocking his sense of smell, it fluttered across his brow like the dead child's dress. He cleared his throat several more times until he was certain Admiral Willis had noticed. "Our mining operations have completely ceased," he said in a soft, wet, petulant tone of voice. "Nobody can move in the hinterlands. The savages have murdered hundreds of our employees." The Admiral only glanced at him out of the corner of his eye. "Something must be done, Admiral. Must be. Law and order must—"
"That's why I'm here, Mr. Owens," the Admiral said, cutting him off abruptly.
"Ah, perhaps the Admiral would like to review the photographic evidence of the atrocities committed upon our employees at—"
"No!" the Admiral replied sharply. He knew what the rebels had done and was disgusted by it, but just then he hated the thin man from Consolidated Enterprises for introducing the tawdry problems of his business partners into that charnel house of dead innocents. Locklear Owens and his friends cared no more for the lives of their slaughtered employees than for those of the murdered children and their benefactors, and although Admiral Willis would never admit it or even show it, he hated the likes of these pampered, overfed businessmen from the bottom of his heart. In reality it was they who were responsible for the suffering of the people of Elneal.
"Gentlemen, I've seen enough," Admiral Willis said. He turned and began striding toward the Dragon that had brought them out. He could not help but notice the President speaking softly and intimately to Owens trailing at the end of the line. Another sharp flash of anger shot through the old navy man. The mining consortiums had paid well to get at the huge molycarbondum deposits under the surface of this world. That money had enabled the tribes to buy the weapons and technology they needed to start the uprising. The companies were warned that would happen, but they had persisted. Admiral Willis even had a file on his desk that proved some of their executives had earned the rights fees back by selling large quantities of modern weapons to the tribes—paying the tribes half what it was worth for the use of their land and then charging them through the nose for the weapons they wanted. And there was no shortage of rogue mercenaries to teach the rebels how to use all that hardware—and they were all on the mining company payrolls.
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