“So you’ve got major logistics issues,” Mosovich said. “Where do we come in?”
“Right now you’re in holding pattern,” Cally said. “After the holidays we are going to scatter some of the men, and especially dependents, into safe houses and bases. And we’ll get started on the plan for how to use DAG long-term.”
“Which is?” Jake asked.
“Right now it’s under OPSEC,” Cally said, shrugging. “I’ll bring you guys in as fast as I can.”
“So this was a social call,” Mueller said.
“No,” Cally said. “This was ‘Hi, I’m your new boss. Same as the old boss.’ And that I’ll get you fully briefed in as soon as I possibly can.”
“Roger, dodger,” Jake said, nodding. “Been a mushroom before, I can be a mushroom again. For a while.”
“Keep the troops straight and we’ll get through this just fine,” Cally said, standing up. “Any questions?”
“So how did you… ?” Mueller said.
“We’re very good,” Cally said with a sigh. “It’s complicated. Any real questions?”
“Just how big are those?” Mueller asked.
“Any real and relevant questions?” Cally asked, shaking her head.
“Nope,” Jake said as Mueller started to open his mouth.
“See you soon,” Cally said, walking out.
“You get the feeling I’m getting?” Mosovich asked as soon as she was out the door.
“You mean the part where it sucks rocks, or the part where it sucks ass?”
“Yeah. Me too,” Jake said glumly.
In the blank gray Galplas mess hall, a baker’s dozen of men sat on tables, or leaned, or stood. A silver and black furred alien sonofabitch stood in front of them, hooded cloak thrown back to reveal pointed ears that twitched occasionally as he spoke, in patterns that looked less nervous than some inscrutable form of facial expression. His eyes were such a bright emerald green that they practically glowed, especially against the faintly purple-tinged whites of his eyes.
The tables were of local human manufacture, taken from the pattern of cafeteria tables all over the US of A back on Earth. Plastic tops were a flat pinkish brown, edged around by aluminum. The major difference was that the hardware underneath the table top was also Galplas, as steel mills were a foreign concept to Prall and wouldn’t have fit in with the Indowy development plans, anyway. Galplas was actually cheaper. Chairs were the same ugly plastic as the tables, bolted to and supported by heavy aluminum frames.
Garth Karnstadt listened to the Darhel with frank disbelief. There would be a catch. There was always a catch. This guy was trying to make the job sound like the best thing since the invention of beer, with that smooth voice of his that took so many suckers in. Garth had a pretty easy charm of his own, and admired the alien professionally, trying to pick up tricks, but no more than that. In a world peopled with suckers and players, Karnstadt was one of the players, and knew it.
His straight, blond hair had a touch of frizz caused by the peroxide he used to lighten it, but it pulled women better this way, god only knew why. He had big, cobalt blue eyes that seemed to affect females in about the same way a box of chocolate did a fat chick. A complete lack of guilt gave them a quiet, good humor that invited trust. On work runs, he took the heaviest loads and volunteered for the missions with the most strenuous treks. That, and carefully disciplining himself about what he chose from the limited options in the chow hall, ensured that his physique lived up to the promise he offered with those eyes — when he chose.
He had a sweet deal running where during the week he laid a couple of women a bit below his standards for the sake of obtaining a little of whatever baubles or treats their regular lovers or husbands had brought in from town. Most of them well-appreciated a little good sex on the side from someone a little rough like him — but who was always careful to leave them looking and smelling pure as the Virgin Mary. He had cultivated a reputation for advising women on the little details that could have tripped them up. It kept his life smooth, and everybody was happy. Including the husbands and lovers who weren’t the least bit hurt by what they didn’t know. Then, on the weekends, he traded the little prizes to the hookers in town for their services, essentially getting all his sexual needs met for free and — most importantly — with no strings. The truly hilarious part was the husbands had probably bought the shit from the hookers in the first place. He’d gotten a few good laughs out of that in the two and a half years he’d been on Prall.
It had all been pretty sweet until one of the bitches in the barracks had slipped and gotten herself knocked up with what, from the timing, was likely to be his and to look nothing like the naturally red-haired husband and wife. What could he say? He liked redheads. And, for a barracks-bitch, she was pretty cute. She only needed Garth because her husband had the libido of your average turd. Having a reputation among the hens for discretion paid off. Anyway, whatever the catch to it, this deal might be just the thing to get him out of Dodge before the piper came around for his pay.
If a few fuzzy greenies died quick and messy instead of slow and starving, what the hell? Dead was dead, and to hear this fucking Elf tell it, everyone on the list was gonna die pronto, one way or the other. Funny how carefully the bastard had to dance around the concept of killing, stopping now and again to breathe deep like the yoga fanatic Karnstadt did on Wednesdays. Thirty-eight, unjuved so far, and her face looked it. As soon as they juved her, she’d be pretty hot and his party would be over, if he was looking for pay. Although, with juv women, the process pumped their libido so much she just might be available anyway and worth missing one of his hooker dates. She learned quick enough. Damn, not that he’d be here. If Claire had just fucking gone into town for an abortion before the pregnancy turned up on medical, he wouldn’t be in this fix. Now, of course, she was confined to base. Abortion was a contract violation, and the fucking Elves on Prall were taking it seriously.
Not that it helped. Garth laughed silently. He had to admire the women for one thing, they were damned clever at keeping their babies out of debt peonage. Frequently didn’t work, but it frustrated the shit out of the Darhel when the women had their kids outside of the infirmary — which meant the kid was born without debt — and then handed them straight out, squalling, to women in town who could foster them. It meant every woman in town, even the whores, was raising at least four kids, sometimes as many as eight. Mothers took over on the weekends, giving the whores much-appreciated time off for their pecuniary activities. He didn’t know how they managed to feed all those kids, but none of them looked particularly hungry. The mothers and fathers, of course, took some of their own scarce freedom money and paid it to support their kids. But by common agreement, and sheer self-interest, indentured women had as few children as possible. Abortions, although illegal, could be had in town, as well as contraception shots. Damn Claire, anyway. His only consolation was that she was going to have a shitty time paying to support it on her own, and if that was rotten of him, then tough shit. Parenthood was her idea, not his; let her take responsibility for her own damn choice.
He’d missed most of what the Darhel said, by getting distracted with his stupid problems, and Garth cursed himself. But, what the hell, he didn’t envy being skewered by a jealous husband if he stayed around here. Not to mention being watched like a hawk by the other jealous husbands. It was common knowledge he screwed around, of course, but every man assumed his own wife was perfectly sexually satisfied at home. Or, at least, the women he chose had that kind of husband. He made a point of skipping the suspicious ones. Damn Claire.