The fifteen-minute speech was just about what Rev expected. The prime minister retold the next 154 years, covering the hardships and trials the planet had faced, including a commercial dispute early on that kept vital supplies from arriving and how the first settlers made do. Two plagues, riots, a blockade. But he spent more time on achievements and how the citizens overcame adversary to create a vibrant nation. Rev hadn’t planned on paying much attention, but he was drawn in. While the incidents that formed Barclay might have been different from those experienced on New Hope, the overall scope of events was pretty much the same.
Maybe we’re more alike than I thought.
The prime minister was followed by the CoH representative. Her short speech could almost be taken word-for-word and transported to New Hope for their Landing Day, or any other planet, for that matter.
She was followed by a teen who spoke about what it meant to her to be a Barclayan, and then by a younger teen who recited a poem he’d written much along the same lines. And surprisingly, that was all for the speeches.
“Damn. That’s it? I can sure go with that,” Rice said before Rev elbowed her in the ribs.
The ceremony wasn’t over, though. A troop of about thirty small children came out and sang a song. They weren’t really that good, and Rev had problems catching all the words, but they weren’t bad, and they were rather cute. They were much younger than Neesy and Kat, but Rev felt a pang of homesickness as they performed.
A group of teens was next. Rev realized why the entire floor hadn’t been filled with chairs when they positioned themselves in the empty floor space, making it into a dance stage. They performed a routine in kilts where they tapped and danced in unison, their legs flying around like crazy while their upper bodies were almost perfectly still. It had the look of something traditional.
“Do you know what that is?” he asked Punch.
Rev wasn’t much of a dancer, and he had no points of reference for what Punch just told him, but it was fun to watch.
There were three more performances: two singers and a group of performing bagpipers. The pipers were dressed like the drummer who had called for the colors in kilts and military dress uniform tops. They marched around in changing formations, all the time wailing away on their bagpipes—which to Rev, looked—and sounded—like they had cats under their arms and were biting their tails.
The troopers had been told that the highlight of the ceremony would be a military “beating.” Rev wondered if this was it. While interesting, he wasn’t sure that this should be the “highlight.” He rather enjoyed the little kids singing and the dancers more.
But the applause was deafening.
“I guess you have to grow up with it,” Ting-a-ling said.
As soon as the bagpipers left the stage, the lights went out, and murmurs of anticipation rose from the audience.
Rev was about to blink on his night vision, but he realized this was part of the show, so he withheld. He wanted to experience whatever was going to happen as it was intended.
He almost jumped when the spotlight flashed on, revealing a single drummer, the same one who’d called for the colors, frozen, right arm holding a drumstick raised high, left hand low with the other drumstick resting on the drum itself. He stood like a statue as if waiting for the crowd to become silent. He stood still for about fifteen seconds—which seemed like an eternity—before he started slowly bringing the aloft arm down while raising the other, like a mechanical man in a giant Swiss cuckoo clock. At the last moment, he flicked his wrist, sending out a single drumbeat reverberating through the auditorium. After a moment, that drumbeat was answered by another from somewhere back in the darkness.
Now, with his left hand held high, the drummer repeated the process, but a little quicker, lowering the left and raising the right arm. He used the same wrist flick at the end to make the beat. The answering beat followed almost immediately. The spotlighted drummer repeated again, and this became a one-minute case of dueling drums. With a shift that was hard to catch, suddenly, the two drums were pounding out an intricate beat together. A larger spotlight snapped on, illuminating a formation of twenty-four militiamen surrounding the lead drummer.
Rev felt his pulse start to rise, almost as if his warrior was trying to break through.
“Can you record this?”
Rev wanted to argue. This wasn’t some military secret, but he knew it wouldn’t do any good. He focused, trying to embed this in his memory.
Like the teen dancers before them, the drummers were expressionless, the only movement being the pounding and marching. While the drummers beat out a tattoo, the formation shifted, bringing everyone into a line. The pounding got louder, the beats more detailed.
The drummer on the far left snapped his left drumstick to eye level, stick parallel to the ground, the right one resting on the drumhead, and froze for three seconds before resuming his drumming and slipping back into the beat with the rest. The drummer to his immediate right followed suit, repeating it. Once he was done, it was the next drummer and all the way down the line. When the far-right drummer did it, the crowd broke out into applause again, but the drums drowned most of that out.
The line broke up with every other drummer performing an about-face and both lines marching away—except for the far right and far left drummers who turned to face each other. With the bulk of the drummers moving into a quieter beat, the two went wild, their arms flying in a complex rhythm, until without warning, each flicked one of their drumsticks, sending it flying across the twenty meters separating the two.
Rev’s heart jumped to his throat, and Rice grabbed his knee in a death grip as the sticks arced across the space . . . only to be snagged by the opposing drummer and immediately folded into the beat. This time, the roar of the crowd drowned out the drums.
They mirrored each other’s movements and beating for another ten seconds until they returned the drumsticks to their owners in the same manner, with high, arching throws. Within seconds, they had melded back into an everchanging formation as drummers intermixed in complex patterns, all the time with the drums sounding the patterns.
Two smaller spotlights appeared on either side of the main one, each illuminating a single drummer holding a huge, vertical drum hanging in front of them. Their much larger drumsticks were attached to their wrists with straps, and they started pounding away, giving a much deeper, chest-rattling boom with each strike. As they marched forward to join the formation, the other drummers parted like sardines making way for sharks. The two beat their drums, sometimes twirling their drumsticks at the end of the straps before retrieving them for another strike.
The formations became frenzied—not quite chaotic, because there was obvious intent and control—but the movements quicker, the drum beats quicker, the volume rising to a crescendo, and Rev thought his heart was going to burst in excitement.
Then, just as it looked like drums were going to come apart in the onslaught, the drummers froze, heads finally moving to snap up as if looking to the stars, right arm raised. The spotlight stayed on them for a full five seconds before they turned off, leaving the auditorium in darkness.
But not silent. Rev joined the rest and jumped to his feet, roaring his approval. Ting-a-ling, Rice, and Toshi were jumping up and down, pounding his back—or maybe he was pounding theirs. He didn’t know.
When the lights came back on, the drum corps was nowhere in sight. But they were in everyone’s mind.
Rev felt . . . amazing, would be an apt term. He’d gone into the ceremony as something to be endured. He was a New Hope citizen, not a Barclayan. Yes, he was also a Home Guard trooper, and his job was to serve the whole of humanity, but that was more of an academic concept, not something he felt in his bones.
But, after attending the ceremony—not just the b
eating, but the entire thing—it hit him what that really meant. And at the moment, he bought into it. These people, these Barclayans, were his people, just as much as the Frisians, the Mezames, the Heges, the AIWs. Even the Mad Dogs.
It might sound corny, but at the moment, Rev considered himself a citizen of the galaxy.
* * *
Rev let out a long and satisfying burp. He could get used to this white cider the locals kept touting. It was different from the apple and pear ciders back on New Hope and Enceladus. It went down smooth, had a nice aftertaste, and more than a little kick.
He took the final bite of his pasty, licked his fingers clean, then finished off his cider. He was feeling the alcohol, and for a moment, he wondered if he should call it a night, but with a shrug, he punched in an order of another glass, and this time, decided to try a curried mince pasty.
The Angry Pelican was a hub of activity. Fox Company had made it their unofficial liberty headquarters, and tonight, their last night on the planet, it was hopping. The pub had run out of alcohol twice already and was only now serving due to the owners buying up the stock of other area bars, then getting an emergency shipment from their distributor.
For all the activity going on, Rev was happy to be sitting in the back, nominally with a couple of the troopers in his platoon. But he was only physically in their proximity. He’d pulled his chair back into the corner so he wouldn’t be drawn into conversations.
Rev needed to decompress. It wasn’t as if he’d gone crazy like many of the troopers. He hadn’t joined the “hook-up line” that first morning where locals—and some visitors—had come to meet troopers and sailors. He’d lost Ting-a-ling and Rice that day to eager partners and hadn’t seen them since. At first, that had bothered him as the four of them had planned several activities together. But he understood the allure of a romantic liaison and accepted it. What helped was when he and Toshi decided that with the others hooking up, they’d go to the “family line,” where local families were ready to “adopt” the troopers and sailors for a day.
Rev’s family was the Remingtons. Dan and Leona were in their thirties and had two kids, Dan Junior and Beth. Their house was lovely and on a hill overlooking the city. Rev had felt a little self-conscious invading their home, but that didn’t last. Dan was close to Rev’s size, and he lent Rev a set of sweats so he could get out of his uniform. Beth reminded him of Kat, and that elicited a little bit of homesickness. He’d spent the day with them, enjoying just relaxing and being out of the Guard, at least mentally. With the humans he’d killed just a couple of days before, that’s what he needed.
The time was only supposed to last for a day, but when Dan had invited him to go trout fishing the next morning, he’d agreed. Rev hadn’t fished much at home, and he was no expert, but it was good to get out in the forest without wondering if a Centaur was lurking just out of sight. He’d even caught two Dolly Rainbows, the local pride and joy, much to his surprise. Dan had offered to take them back to his house to cook them up, but Rev demurred and slipped each one back into the creek.
Dan treated him to a BBQ for lunch on the way back. It wasn’t Fat Alicia’s back in Anastasia, but it wasn’t bad. He thanked Dan after they got back to the hotel, then spent a few hours wandering around and seeing the sights before the time difference made it appropriate for him to call home. The calls were free, courtesy of the Barclay government, and he spent over an hour with his family.
He’d hesitated before calling Malaika. She didn’t answer, however, and he didn’t know if he felt relieved or disappointed about that.
The local VGW put on a buffet at the hotel for those not otherwise engaged. The vets wore the same hats that the vets back in New Hope did. Mr. Oliva would feel right at home with them. When Rev showed them his membership card, they’d almost dragged him to the hotel bar. He’d still be there, captive to their stories, if Corporal Incrit hadn’t seen him and asked if he was going to the Angry Pelican. Even then, he’d almost decided to hang out with the vets, but in the end, he’d joined the unattached troopers in the platoon.
He took a sip of his cider. When he’d mentioned to Dan that he’d liked the stuff, Dan, with almost religious fervor, swore white cider didn’t deserve the term. Only apple and pear were cider, and anything else was an affront to Bacchus and all the gods of drink.
Rev didn’t know about that. All he knew was that he liked it.
Heck, maybe this time with the Guard is teaching me something. First, Mad Dog Donat Azurco, and now Barclay white cider. And I’ve still got two and a half years to go.
He downed it in one large gulp, then ordered another. He wasn’t drunk, despite the best efforts of the VGW vets, but he was feeling good.
“No, no, really!” Incrit, looking a little further gone than Rev, shouted with a laugh.
“Your AI tells you jokes,” Sergeant Tims said. “And you say they’re funny?”
That caught Rev’s attention.
“Sure. Listen to this one. Can one bird tell a joke?”
“Why would a bird tell a joke?” Tims asked, probably drunker than Incrit.
The corporal waved a dismissive hand. “That’s not important. Just answer the question.”
“You tell us, Ink,” Corporal Wymont, the MDS trooper, said with open disdain.
“No, but toucan.”
There were some groans.
“Get it? No, but two can,” Incrit said, laughing far more than the joke was worth.
Rev rolled his eyes. If Incrit was bragging on Union AIs’ capabilities, that sure wasn’t going to hack it. Punch had told far better jokes even in the beginning of that stage. By the end, they were better still.
What the hell happened there?
Rev kept trying to accept the new Punch, hoping that when they got back to the Marines, he’d be like he was again. In his heart, though, he knew this wasn’t just being neutered for Guard duty. Something had changed, starting with Bluebonnet Meadows. What the change was, Rev didn’t know, and he was afraid to dig into it given his suspicions.
Who cares, though? Why shouldn’t you ask if he’s changed?
Rev started to subvocalize the question, but then he stopped as his drink arrived. He took a long draught, bolstering up his courage.
If all you do is listen in on a staff sergeant sitting in a bar, then you have a sorry life, he thought at a possible eavesdropper.
“Punch, why have you stopped telling jokes. Is something wrong with you?”
That wasn’t what I asked.
“Then why don’t you tell me any more jokes?”
That didn’t used to stop you.
There was a flicker of something low in his eyesight, something that almost looked like a sign with writing. But it was fuzzy, and before Rev could try and decipher it, it was gone. He looked up for a projector that might be sending quick messages to spur buying more drinks. Not that the pub needed to. People were already buying plenty. He couldn’t spot anything, however. If that’s what he’d seen, then the projector was well hidden.
He took another drink—maybe it was working—and tried to remember what he’d just been doing.
Oh, yeah. Punch.
But before he could dive into Punch and his jokes deeper, he heard his name shouted out. Ting-a-ling had spotted him from the door into the pub. Rev waved him over, only then noticing the older, blonde woman in a slinky iridescent purple dress who was holding onto his arm possessively—and then Rice behind the two of them with a much younger man who could still be on the shallow side of twenty.
The woman didn’t seem to be too happy to be in the pub, and she took that moment to reach around, grab Ting-a-ling’s chin, and turn him in for a kiss that looked like she was trying to swallow him like a snake with a sparrow. Not that Ting-a-ling seemed to mind, either the kiss or the hoots from the troopers around them. His hand strayed to
the woman’s ample bottom, and he returned the kiss with almost violent passion until they broke and Ting-a-ling looked at Rev with a shit-eating grin.
A table opened up near the bar, and Ting-a-ling started leading the woman to it. Rice followed, dragging her . . . date? . . . to the table as well, when, to Rev’s surprise, Ting-a-ling’s woman reached out to take the young man’s free hand.
Ting-a-ling motioned for Rev to join them, but Rev was already out of his seat and heading over. Whatever had gone on with Rice and Ting-a-ling over the last two days looked to be way more interesting than what Rev had done, and he wanted to know every last gory detail.
23
Rev never found out exactly what Ting-a-ling and Rice had done during those two days on Barclay. All Ting-a-ling had said was that they’d enjoyed their stay and wouldn’t go further. He said that as a spoken-for man, it was probably for the best that Rev didn’t know what he missed. But if it were anything like what some of the other troopers and sailors who had no problem bragging about their exploits had said, Ting-a-ling and Rice’s visit had been memorable.
That didn’t stop Rev from subtly digging over the next, mostly routine, five months. There had been three port visits and two training evolutions, the most notable one with what remained of the Denter Gendarmerie. The two-planet alliance had refused to join the CoH in defense of humanity, and the Centaurs had scorched one of the planets. The surviving Denter planet, Victant, was still not a member of the Congress of Humanity, but there had been an agreement of understanding between the two, and the combined exercise between the Takagahara, Fox Company, and the Gendarmerie was the first military cooperation between the Denters and another force since its inception.
The strategic political importance of the exercise with the Gendarmerie was obvious, but the exercise itself was little more than a dog and pony show. The Gendarmerie were not well trained, and a significant portion of them seemed to still be in a state of shock. Many of them were from Oresta, the planet that had been scoured, and as Sergeant Lines noted, they were like zombies in many ways.
An Uneasy Alliance: Book 4 of the Sentenced to War Series Page 22