"We landed and they ran into the jungle. We advanced under fire—mostly spears and blowguns—and burned their villages. Then one day they grew tired of running."
Lanzotta laughed again. But this time, Sten and the others were too caught up with his story to notice.
"What they discovered was this: Yes, we were big strong soldiers with the firepower of a small tank. But we couldn't maneuver. And we were cut off from our environment. So, they worked out this simple little trick.
"They dug pits, camouflaged them, and then fled before our advance. Of course, many of us fell in. The pits were lined with nets that tangled us up." Lanzotta wasn't laughing.
"And while we were struggling out of the nets, they'd run up to the pit and stick a big long spear through the suit's waste vent. The spear made large holes in the trooper inside.
"Naturally, the excrement was carried into the body. The wound festered so badly that the medpaks froze up—and many of us rotted to death." Lanzotta shook his head.
"We lost two-thirds of the guardsmen that made the assault. And more in another landing. Finally the only solution was to dust the planet, sit back, and watch Moros glow."
Lanzotta patted the suit.
"Destroying planets isn't done in polite diplomatic circles. The Emperor was very unhappy."
Lanzotta grinned as he came to his final point.
"The new Techs," he said, "started redesigning the suit."
Sten wished he could find a place to hide. From the look on Lanzotta's face, he knew it would have to be very deep and made of something at least as strong as titanium.
"It is a sin and an abomination in the eyes of the Lord," Smathers frothed. "It was my duty to report their behavior to you."
Lanzotta stared at him, then at the two men standing at attention nearby. Sten, he ignored—for the moment.
"Colrath, Rnarak, is he telling the truth?"
"YES, SERGEANT."
Lanzotta sighed and turned to Smathers.
"Smathers, I have a distinct surprise for you. The Guard doesn't care about what beings do with each other when they're off duty, so long as everyone falls out for formation the next morning."
"But—"
"But you come from a world settled by the Plymouth Brethren. Fine. Some excellent guardsmen have been produced by your beliefs. But all of them learned their ideas are not to be applied to anyone but themselves. And since when have you ever interrupted your sergeant?"
Smathers stared at the floor. "Sorry. Sergeant."
"Your apology is accepted. But have you ever been to bed with a man?"
Smathers looked horrified. "Of course not."
"If you don't know about it, did you ever consider that you're missing something?" Lanzotta said.
Smathers' eyes bulged.
"In any event," Lanzotta said briskly. "You are spending time worrying about something that is none of your business. And since you seem so preoccupied ferreting cesspools, I think we need one volunteer to clean the one in the barracks. You're accepted."
"You're not going to—"
"I'm not going to," Lanzotta agreed. "Now move out."
Smathers walked down the barracks toward the latrine. Lanzotta turned to Colrath and Rnarak.
"While the Guard isn't concerned with what you do or don't do with each other, we still must respect the beliefs of the other trooper. I am deeply distressed by the fact that you two couldn't be bothered to find a private place for your recreation, and instead disturbed the sleep and happiness of other trainees. Go help him clean the cesspool."
The two shame-faced men walked slowly away. Now Lanzotta turned his attention to Sten.
"Recruit Corporal Sten!"
"Yes, sergeant."
"Why didn't you deal with this matter yourself?"
"I tried to, sergeant. Smathers insisted on seeing you."
"As is his right. Especially when confronted with a recruit corporal incapable of handling a simple barracks dispute."
"Yes, sergeant"
"First, you will remove those stripes."
"Yes, sergeant."
"Second, you will join those three on the cesspool detail."
"Yes, sergeant."
"Dismissed."
Sten followed the others out. Next time, he thought, he'd save everyone a whole lot of trouble and just tear Smathers in half.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
BASICALLY, STEN DECIDED, he didn't give a Mig's ass. He touched the anodizer to the last bit of exposed metal on his weapons belt, then tucked it back in his cabinet.
Then looked up.
Tomika stood there, kitbag in hand.
He decided, for about the gigatime, she was the nicest-looking thing about training. And he'd tried. Indeed he'd tried.
"Who's paired with you, Sten?"
"My left hand," he said.
She tossed her ditty on his bunk and started patting the pillow into shape. Sten's mouth dropped.
"Uh, Tomika? I asked before and—"
"I don't bag with NCOs. I got standards."
Sten suddenly decided it not only wasn't important, but it was funny, Broke his laugh off as he looked at Gregor.
"You see what I meant," Gregor said. "And you were wrong."
"I'm always wrong, Gregor. Howcum this time?"
"They are arbitrary. They wouldn't give me the rank I deserve. And they broke you. You see?"
"Nope. Far as I can see, I stepped on it."
"It's right there. In front of you." Sten decided that Gregor was getting a little shrill.
"DNC, troop. Does not compute."
"My father taught me that any business that doesn't respond to new stimuli is doomed. That's the Guard. All they want is cannon fodder. Anybody who doesn't fit their idea of a moron hero, they'll put to scutwork. And if they make a mistake, like they did with you, they'll bust him down as soon as they see it."
"You really believe that, Gregor," Tomika said.
"Dash-A right I do," Gregor said. "I've written another letter to my father, Sten. He'll see things are rectified."
Sten sat up. "You, uh, mention me?"
"No, I did not. Just like you would have wanted. But you will regret it. You'll see."
And Gregor laughed, turned, and walked back toward his bunk.
"Hey, Ex Recruit Trainee Small Time Corporal Sten? Is he two zeds short of a full count?"
Sten didn't answer her, just listened to Gregor's laughter as he clambered into his bunk.
"And what happens when I do this?"
Tomika giggled. Sten suddenly sat up in his bunk and put a hand over her mouth. Movement. A buried snicker. Tomika reached up and grabbed him, pulling Sten down to the pillow.
"No, Sten," she breathed. "Wait."
Sten did—for a long count of heartbeats.
And then the shouting started.
Somebody hit the lights, and Sten bolted out of the bunk. The shouting came from Gregor's area.
Sten rolled out of his bunk, reflexively sliding up into an attack stance. And then he slumped down again, laughing helplessly.
Gregor screamed louder and started flailing.
Sten and the other recruits gathered around Gregor's area. The man did have problems.
"It's the Giant Spider of Odal," somebody said in a mock hushed voice. "You're in trouble, Gregor."
Gregor was indeed in trouble. Somebody must've snuck a spray can of climbing thread out of the training area the day before. And while Gregor slept, he, she, or they had spun the thread from bunk to cabinet to boots to bunk to combat shoes to cabinet to end up connected to Gregor's nose.
The high-test, incredibly sticky goo made a very effective spider web, Sten decided. Whoever had spun the web had unclipped the hardener from the nozzle tip, so the more Gregor flailed, the more he became enmeshed in the strands.