“Okay,” he said, looking at her again when they were alone. He wasn’t asking if she was all right, he was telling her she was.
She straightened slightly, glancing at the steadying hand that had remained on her shoulder since he’d wiped her tears away, then looking into his eyes. “Thank you,” she murmured. “You saved me.”
He grunted. His grunt seemed to say it was no big deal.
“They won’t bother me anymore, will they?”
“No.” The word seemed to come from deep inside a bottomless cave.
“What’s your name?”
“Schultz.”
“You’re not an officer, are you?”
He just looked at her.
“You’re not even a corporal, are you?”
His head barely moved side to side.
She thought, what were the ranks she’d heard the Marines had? “Lance corporal?”
“Yes.”
“Well, now, Lance Corporal Schultz,” she said briskly, shaking herself and sitting straight, “for as long as I continue to work here, whenever you come in, you get the best meal I can prepare for you. On the house.”
He raised an eyebrow.
“I’m the chef, I can do that. You’ll probably have to pay for your beer, but your food is free. That’s the least I can do for you.”
“Okay?” This time it was a question.
“Yes, I’m all right now. You can rejoin your friends.”
Schultz removed his hand from her shoulder, but before he could turn, she threw her arms around his neck and kissed him full on the lips. Then, as though shocked by her own actions, she jerked back and dropped her hands primly into her lap.
“Thank you,” she softly said again, and watched his broad back as he left the kitchen. He was younger than her, almost all of them except that Ensign Bass were, but not by many years.
She shook herself and wondered why she’d thought that.
Schultz didn’t have to say anything when he returned to the common room. He didn’t even have to look around. Everybody knew that Einna Orafem was now under his protection, and nobody wanted to cross Hammer Schultz.
So things went for a couple of weeks more. During the days the Marines of 34th FIST stood minor daily inspections, drilled on their parade grounds, sat through lectures and trids in company classrooms, cleaned their weapons and gear, and engaged in physical fitness routines and hand-to-hand combat training. In the evenings they pulled liberty, did or did not go into Bronnysund, maybe stayed on base and went to fliks, ate in the mess halls or at Pete’s Place, the civilian-run restaurant on base, worked on their Marine Corps Institute courses, studied for promotion exams, or read for the sheer pleasure of reading. On weekends, nearly everybody headed for town. True to her word, Einna Orafem made sure Lance Corporal Schultz ate well and for free. Not that she ever left the sanctuary of her kitchen; she had the girls on table duty tell her when he came in. And, of course, Schultz never went into the kitchen.
Then things changed.
Captain Conorado, commander of Company L, looked over his Marines at morning formation on First Day two weeks after Schultz rescued Einna Orafem and announced, “We have an IG one month from today.” He ignored the groans from the ranks, there weren’t many of them and they weren’t loud. Not many of the Marines in the company had been through the grueling experience of an Inspector General’s inspection. In a month, the announcement of an IG inspection would set off such a chorus of complaints that he might have to take disciplinary action to quell them.
“You have one week to get everything squared away,” Conorado continued. “Next First Day, there will be a platoon commander’s pre-IG. You will then have one day to rectify any discrepancies before a company commander’s pre-IG. The First Day after that, you will stand a battalion commander’s pre-IG, followed a week later by FIST pre-IG.
“After all that, the gods help anybody who isn’t ready to ace the IG’s inspection.
“Platoon commanders, to the company office. Company Gunnery Sergeant, front and center!”
Gunnery Sergeant Thatcher, Company L’s second-ranking enlisted man, advanced from his position at the right front of the formation, came to attention in front of Conorado, and sharply lifted his right hand in salute.
Conorado returned the salute and both Marines dropped their hands. “Gunnery Sergeant, when I release the company to you, you will have the platoon sergeants begin preparing their Marines for the first pre-IG.”
“Aye aye, sir!” Thatcher replied.
“Gunnery Sergeant, the company is yours.”
Thatcher raised his hand in salute again. “Sir, the company is mine.”
Conorado returned the salute, about-faced, and headed into the barracks, followed by the company’s other officers.
Thatcher watched the CO until he and all the other officers were inside the barracks, then turned about, shook his head, and looked over the company from one end to the other.
“Most of you don’t know what kind of fun and games you’re in for. Lucky you. You’re not going to think you’re very lucky a month from now, though.
“Platoon sergeants, you heard the man. When I dismiss the company, get your people inside and begin preparing them for the IG.”
Again, he looked the company over from end to end, then bellowed, “COMP-ney, dis-MISSED!”
The Marines broke ranks and gathered expectantly around their platoon sergeants, many shouting questions.
Staff Sergeant Hyakowa raised his hands and patted the air to silence the questions being thrown at him. When the hubbub reduced he told third platoon, “Think of the toughest junk-on-the-bunk you’ve ever stood. Magnify it by ten. That’s where the IG starts. It gets worse from there. Fire teams, head for your quarters. Fire team leaders, begin inspecting everything your people have in your rooms. Squad leaders, to my quarters. Move it!”
The week was a madness of long hours, normally lasting until almost taps, as the Marines checked to make certain they had every piece of equipment the manual called for, that each piece was in tiptop condition, and was faultlessly clean and fully functional. They carefully went through all of their personal belongings, separating out those things they’d have need for during the coming four weeks, and those they could manage without. The latter, they packed in seabags that were then stowed in the company supply room.
Sergeant Souavi, the supply sergeant, didn’t deliberately make them stand long times in line at the entrance to the supply room. But they stood for long waits anyway as he inspected the outside of each seabag brought to him for storage to make sure it was properly labeled with its owner’s name and particulars, and properly sealed and secured so no one could be accused of pilferage. Then he had to stow each seabag in such a manner that it wouldn’t be crushed by the bags above it, and so any bag could be quickly found and retrieved if it was necessary to remove one from storage.
The Marines organized the items they felt they couldn’t live without for the next four weeks so they were ready to hand and easily packed into a valise that would go into the supply room the day before each pre-IG inspection as well as before the big one.
Sergeant Souavi muttered to himself that he’d really make them stand in long lines waiting to stow their valises, because that meant he’d have to spend the day before each inspection storing the bags of personal items. But he didn’t really mean it; each level of inspection would include the company supply room and he’d be graded by how well the seabags and valises were stowed. He knew that by the time the IG showed up, he’d be able to store everything properly in his sleep.
CHAPTER FOUR
* * *
“Wall, Miz Humpfriz, that ain’t hardly what we want,” Halbred Stutz drawled. The red splotches on his face flared even redder as he spoke and it seemed to Wellington-Humphreys that the thick black hairs protruding from the nostrils of his bulbous nose vibrated with a life of their own. In an earlier age, she reflected sourly, this caricature of a man would have been
dressed in sweat-stained shirtsleeves, thumbs hooked into his galluses, and a huge chaw of tobacco stuck in one cheek.
They had been sitting for hours already, had endured a long lecture on the Fort Seymour incident, which Wellington-Humphreys had managed to terminate with assurances of a full investigation, justice, and compensation for the victims. Befitting her long experience and skill as a diplomat, Wellington-Humphreys successfully concealed the disgust and anger that had been boiling inside her. The secessionists had deliberately selected unqualified individuals to represent them at the negotiations, nobodies in fact, while her own government was being represented by its highest officials. Sitting next to her was the Confederation’s distinguished Minister of Commerce, Dr. Rafe Pieters. She didn’t know what qualifications the ridiculous little man named Stutz had to be leading the Coalition’s negotiating team, aside from the fact that on his home world of Hobcaw he owned several million hectares of arable land that he farmed.
“Y’see, we are an ag-ri-cul-tur-al world, us Cob’uns,” Stutz emphasized the word “agricultural” as if speaking to ignorant schoolchildren, “and our economy depends on its produce exports.”
“We are prepared to offer substantial subsidies, sir,” Pieters said.
“Yeah? Wall, that was tried a long time ago, folks, ’n it din work then neither. You pay us for not growing crops we can’t export anyhow and before you know it we’ll be dependent on yer handouts. No, siree!”
“It would only be for an interim period, Mr. Stutz,” Pieters replied. “It will take some time to get the other member worlds to accept your produce and manufactures into their own markets in exchange for things they can provide that you need on Hobcaw and the other worlds in your Coalition.”
“We don’t have a lot of time, Mr. Minister Pieters,” Stutz replied. “Our trade deficit with your member worlds reached twenty trillion last fiscal year and it’s gettin’ higher the longer we sit on our rumps here banging our chops. And your bankers, their only fix is to loan us more money to pay off our debts at interest rates that only get us deeper into the debt cycle. You gotta remember, even though there’s twelve of us in our Coalition, we’re still underpopulated, compared to the longer-settled places, and that deficit is holding back our development. Your financiers are strangling us! The way we figure it, if we was totally independent of the trade policies and treaties your government has cooked up we could go at each member world separately and haggle our own agreements.”
“Well, Mr. Stutz,” Pieters leaned forward as he spoke, “this is merely our preliminary meeting, a session to familiarize ourselves with the problems. Their resolution will take time, sir. Surely your members would agree that if we can settle these issues to their satisfaction the time would be well spent?” Stutz did not reply, only gazed at the Commerce Minister through half-lidded eyes. Frustrated by the lack of response, Pieters tried being conciliatory. “We agree there are disadvantageous imbalances in our trade relations with your worlds and we’re here to see if we can eliminate them.”
“But you must try to see things from our perspective,” Wellington-Humphreys added. “There was the outbreak of ‘Mad Tomato Disease’ five years ago that severely damaged your truck garden exports and—”
“That was utter hysteria, madam,” Stutz interjected, “typical of the paranoia that has always manifested itself in your relations with us.” He smiled, revealing jagged, yellowed teeth.
Wellington-Humphreys stared at Stutz in surprise for a moment. The man did not always talk like a bumpkin! She realized then that his folksy manner was assumed and behind that façade worked a facile and astute intelligence. She had underrated the man. She should have known anybody who could have built an agricultural empire such as the one Stutz ruled was no rube. But he had inadvertently given himself away with that outburst. Obviously his own harvests had been most adversely affected by the Mad Tomato virus. A very undiplomatic smile crept across her face.
“You find that amusing?” Stutz asked, not amused.
“Not in the least, sir.” Since her smile nettled Stutz, she enlarged it to a grin. She challenged him with it and at the same time let him know she was on to his tactics.
Realizing he’d made a slip, Stutz permitted himself a tight grin and continued in a more affable tone. “Wall, it was all exaggerated and it’s behind us now, but don’t forget that other worlds have had their problems too. How’s about what happened on Atlas just a while back, whose crops were destroyed by a virus imported from one of the Confederation worlds? We ain’t the only ones with problems like that.”
“We understand that,” Pieters replied, “but there is the problem with Mylex and their failure to protect the intellectual properties of the Confederation’s member worlds, their massive violations of the copyright laws, and the very profitable trade they have built up selling cut-rate bootlegged books, vids, all kinds of entertainment media that are protected elsewhere in the Confederation. Why, the Mylex representative isn’t even with us today!” He glanced at the three negotiators who’d accompanied Stutz, all of whom shook their heads.
“Naw,” Stutz grinned, “ol’ Jenks Moody. He couldn’t make it, had a bit too much of our fine Hobcaw bourbon last night.” The members of his delegation guffawed.
Wellington-Humphreys couldn’t help but admire the way the negotiators were laying it on, pretending to be a bunch of “cracker-barrel” cronies. She glanced out of the side of her eye at Pieters, who really did think these people were hicks, and winked. “Well, Mr. Stutz, there is also the situation on Embata, with the use of slave labor in the mines there. That sort of practice doesn’t sit well with our ideas of human rights.”
“Oh, yeah, Miz Wellington-Humpfriz? Those people are felons, ma’am, they don’t have no rights. But you ever hear of a place called Darkside, eh? How does your highfalutin’ ‘human rights’ ideas justify that?” Darkside was the highly secret penal colony the Confederation operated for the incarceration of its worst criminals. Often they were sent there without benefit of a trial.
“Touché,” Wellington-Humphreys replied.
“I’ll ‘touché’ you sumptin’ else, ma’am.” Stutz leaned back, narrowing his eyes. In her mind Wellington-Humphreys imagined him snapping his galluses. “You remember a scribbler, someone from Carhart’s World, I recall, he visited Embata about a hundred years ago and wrote a book about the place? His name was Oldlaw, Frederic Oldlaw. He became famous as a city planner back in the last century. He wrote about his travels through Embata but he really meant everywhere in our quadrant. He wrote the Embatans they were all a collection of lazy ignorant folks who’d rather hunt and run with dawgs in the woods than work for a living, lived off their pregnant wimmen’s labor, ate a diet that’d puke a hound off a gut wagon, ’n got fallin’-down drunk just to relax. He reported a conversation he had with one fella at a roadhouse on a back road somewheres. The man was braggin’ about how he was gonna get drunk ’n go home ’n beat up his wife and kids. ‘How much do you weigh?’ this Oldlaw fella asked. ‘Oh, ’bout a hunner fifty kilos,’ the guy answered. ‘Wall, how much do your kids weigh?’ Oldlaw wanted to know. You see where he was drivin’ at? ‘Nuttin’, when they’s flyin’ thru th’ air,’ the man replied.” Stutz laughed and slapped his palm on the table.
“Now, Miz Humpfriz, Mr. Pieters,” Stutz continued, “that’s a good ol’ story, but it’s pure hogwash, pure hogwash. That writer fella was so stupid he never realized that’s just how the Embata people get their fun, leadin’ strangers on that way. That’s what happens when you don’t stay someplace long enough to get to know the folks there. Wall, how do you think trash like that set with the folks who read it but never visited Embata themselves? And that attitude is at the bottom of the problems we are having today with your Confederation of Human Worlds. You people think you’re so much better’n we are ’n we don’t like it, not one damn bit. Our differences have been growin’ us apart for two hundred years now and we want out of this Confederation, ma’am.”
Stutz nodded affably. “Before you go, ma’am, I want to give you somethin’.” He produced a large bottle filled with an amber liquid. “This is a bottle of Old Snort, the finest aged bourbon in Human Space and it comes from my own distillery. I want you to sample it tonight and tomorrow you tell me if you ever tasted anything so smooth and delicious in your life. Yes, ma’am,” he nodded, “drink it neat or with spring water, ’n you’ll see we Cob’uns know our whiskey.”
Wellington-Humphreys had engaged rooms in one of Fargo’s most exclusive hotels for the negotiations, something she often did when she wanted off-world diplomats to feel comfortable during difficult meetings. She and Rafe Pieters were sitting in their suite, relaxing.
“ ‘Old Snort,’ ” Pieters laughed, regarding warily the bourbon Stutz had given Wellington-Humphreys. “Well, let’s try some and see if the old boy knows what he’s talking about. ‘Old Snort,’ Julie, where did he come up with a name like that?”
“Same place they came up with a name like Hobcaw.” Wellington-Humphreys grinned, holding out her glass. “ ‘Pokin’ fun at strangers’ seems to be ingrained in the ‘Cob’un’ culture. One finger, please. No, make that two! I need something strong after sitting in there with those characters, but I don’t trust this stuff not to make me go blind or something. But you know, Rafe, I could actually get to like that old bastard. There’s more behind that ugly nose of his than sinuses full of snot.”
“Julie!” Pieters shook his head, pretending shock. He poured her whiskey and then himself. He regarded the amber fluid carefully. “We might be taking our lives in our own hands, drinking this stuff. That’d be the ultimate insult, wouldn’t it? Send buffoons as negotiators and then have them poison us to boot.” He laughed and regarded the label on the whiskey bottle. “ ‘Old Snort’ indeed!” He sniffed the bourbon carefully and raised an eyebrow. “Umm, might just do!” Then: “They’re stalling, you know that, don’t you? They want to keep us talking while they plan something. We’ve negotiated with them for years on these very same issues we’ve been discussing all day, Julie, and always it’s been they’ve done nothing anybody else wouldn’t have done, nobody likes us, everybody owes us, blah, blah, blah. They can be the most fractious, disagreeable, one-way people to deal with. I think we need to report that to the President, advise her she’d better get ready for the other shoe to drop.”
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