"I don't like night actions when local forces are involved, Sergeant," he added inafrigid voice."It's dangerous because of theconfusion.If my orders had been obeyed, there would have been no confusion."
Steuben glanced at Broglie. He smiled, much as he had done when he looked at his White Mice. "I'm particularly impressed by the way you controlled the commo net alone while fighting your vehicle, Mister Broglie," he said. "The locals might well have panicked when they lost normal communications along with their command post."
Broglie licked his lips. "It was okay," he said. "Booster did most of it. And it had to be done. I couldn't stop the bastards alone."
"Wait a minute,"Des Grieux said. "Wait a bloody minute! I wasn't just sitting on my hands, you know. I was fighting!"
"Yes, Sergeant," Major Steuben said. "You were fighting like a fool, and it appears that you're still a fool. Which doesn't surprise me."
He smiled at Broglie."The colonel will have to approve your field promotion to lieutenant,Mister Broglie,"he said,"but I don't foresee any problems. Of course, you'll have a badly understrength platoon until replacements arrive."
Des Grieux swung a fist at Broglie. The White Mice had read the signs correctly. The male escort was already holding Des Grieux's right arm. The woman on the other side bent the tanker's left wrist back and up with the skill of long practice.
Joachim set the muzzle of his pistol against Des Grieux's right eye. The motion was so swift that the cold iridium circle touched the eyeball before reflex could blink the lid closed.
Des Grieux jerked his head back, but the pistol followed. Its touch was as light as that of a butterfly's wing.
"Via, sir," Broglie gasped. "Don't. Slick's the best tank commander in the regiment."
Steuben giggled again. "If you insist, Mister Broglie," he said. "After all, you won the battle for us here."
He holstered the pistol. A warrior's frustrated tears rushed out to fill Des Grieux's eyes . . . .
Part II
Xingha was the staging area for the troops on the Western Wing: a battalion of the Slammers and more than ten thousand of the local Han troops the mercenaries were supporting.
The city's dockyard district had a way to go before it adapted to the influx of soldiers,but it was doing its manful, womanly, childish, and indeed bestial—best to accommodate the sudden need. Soon the entertainment facilities would reach the universal standard to which war sinks those who support the fighters; in all places, in every time.
Sergeant Samuel Des Grieux had seen the pattern occur often during his seven years in the Slammers. He could describe the progression as easily as an ecologist charts the process by which lakes become marshes, then forests.
Des Grieux didn't care one way or the other. He drank what passed for beer; listened to a pair of Oriental women keen, "Oh where ha you been, Laird Randall, me son?" (Hammers Slammers came to the Han contract from seven months of civil war among the Scottish colonists of New Aberdeen); and wondered when he'd have a chance to swing his tank into action. It'd been a long time since he had a tank to command . . . .
"Hey,is there anybody here from Golf Company?"asked a trooper,obviouslya veteran but wearing new-issue khaki. His hair was in a triple ponytail, according to whim or the custom of some planet unfamiliar to Des Grieux. The fellow was moving from one table to the next in the crowded cantina. Just now, he was with a group of H Company tankers next to Des Grieux, bending low and shouting to be heard over the music and general racket.
"Hey, lookit that," said Pesco, Des Grieux's new driver. He pointed to the flat, rear-projection screen in the corner opposite the singers."That's Captain Broglie, isn't he? What's he doing on local video?"
"Who bloody cares?" Des Grieux said. He finished his beer and refilled his glass from the pitcher.
If you tried, you could hear Broglie's voice—though not that of the Han interviewer—over the ambient noise. Despite himself, Des Grieux found himself listening.
"Hey,Johnnie,"chirped a woman in a reddress as shedraped her arm around Des Grieux's shoulders. She squeezed her obviously padded bosom to his cheek.
She was possibly fourteen, probably younger. "Buy me a drink?"
"Out,"said Des Grieux,stiff-arming the girl into the back of a ma at the next table. Des Grieux stared at the video screen, getting cues from Broglie's lips to aid as he fitted together the shards of speech.
"No, on the contrary, the Hindis make very respectable troops," Broglie said. "And as for Baffin's Legion, they're one of the best units for hire. I don't mean the Legion's in our class, of course . . . ."
A fault in the video screen—or the transmission medium—gave the picture a green cast. It made Broglie look like a three-week-old corpse. Des Grieux's lips drew back in a smile.
Pesco followed the tank commander's stare. "You served under him before, didn't you?" he asked Des Grieux. "Captain Broglie, I mean. What's he like?"
Des Grieux slashed his hand across the air in brusque dismissal. "I never served under him,"he said."When he took over the platoon I was in,I transferred to . . . infantry, Delta Company. And then combat cars, India and Golf."
" . . . Baffin's tank destroyers are first class," Broglie's leprous image continued. "Very dangerous equipment."
"Yeah, but look,"Pesco objected."With him, under him, it don't matter.What's he like, Broglie? Does he know his stuff, or is he gonna get somebody killed?"
Near where the singers warbled, "Mother, make my bed soon . . ." a dozen troopers had wedged two of the round tables together and were buying drinks for Sergeant Kuykendall. Des Grieux had heard his former driver'd gotten a twelve-month appointment to the Military Academy on Nieuw Friesland, with a lieutenancy in the Slammers waiting when she completed the course.
He supposed that was okay. Kuykendall had combat experience, so she'd be at least a cunt-hair better than green sods who'd never been on the wrong end of a gun muzzle.
Of course, she didn't have the experience Des Grieux himself did . . . .
"For I'm sick at the heart, and I fain would lie down," the singers chirped through fixed smiles.
"Slick?" Pesco pressed. "Sarge? What about the new CO?"
Des Grieux shrugged."Broglie?" he said."He's a bloody good shot,I'll tell you that. Not real fast—not as fast as I am. But when he presses the tit, he nails what he's going after."
"Either of you guys from Golf?" asked the veteran in new fatigues. "I just got back from leave and I'm lookin' for my cousin, Tip Rasidi."
"We're Hotel Company, buddy," Pesco said. "Tanks. Why don't you try the Adjutant?"
"Because the bloody Adjutant lost half his bloody records in the transit," the stranger snapped, "and the orderly sergeant tells me to bugger off until he's got his bloody office sorted out. So I figure I'll check around till I find what's happened to Tip."
The stranger scraped his way over to the next table, rocking Pesco forward in his chair. The driver grimaced sourly.