"These guys are pretty good in the hills," O'Neal said. "Almost as good as you."
"No trouble," Mueller said. "But I've got a question: I've heard of people eating Posleen, but . . ."
Papa O'Neal looked sort of sheepish as Cally laughed hysterically.
"Yeah, he ate one," she said. "Parts of a few, actually."
"They really taste like shit," he said with a shrug. "They're tough, they're stringy, they don't soften up when you cook 'em and they really, really taste bad; worse than sloth and that's saying a lot."
"You've eaten sloth?" Mueller asked. "Shit, I've never met anybody who's eaten one of those."
"Yes you have," Mosovich said with a grimace. "I did one time. If Posleen's worse than that, they're pretty bad. It's hard to describe how bad sloth is; it tastes sort of like what you'd think a road-killed possum would taste like after a few days on the road."
"That's a pretty good description," Papa O'Neal said. "And Posleen tastes worse. I loaded it up with nam pla even, my own recipe for nam pla with added habanero, and the taste still came through."
"Oh, Jesus," Mosovich laughed. "That's bad!"
"I finally figured out that I could eat it if I coated it in berebere," O'Neal said with a shrug. "That shit's so hot you can't taste anything at all; it puts Thais on their ass."
"Man, you must have been everywhere," Mueller said with another laugh. "I've heard of berebere but . . ."
"I had it once," Mosovich said. "Somebody bet me I couldn't eat a whole plate of something called 'wat har bo.' " He shook his head. "I took one bite and paid off the bet; I'd rather eat my pride and give up a C note than die."
"Berebere isn't for the faint of heart," Papa O'Neal admitted. "Even I can't stomach much of it and I've eaten more really hot shit than I want to think about. So I don't eat 'em anymore. And I don't let Cally eat it at all; you can get a disease from it, like when cannibals eat brains. It's caused by a little protein they've got that we can't break down."
"Kreinsfeltzer or something like that?" Mueller asked. "Same thing as Mad Cow Disease basically. I've heard you can get it from eating Posleen. So why did you?"
"That's it," Papa O'Neal said. "But, hell, the onset is a couple of decades normally." He grinned and waved at his body. "One way or another, I don't really think I've got another couple of decades."
"I'm hungry," Mueller said with a grin. "But I don't want to die from what I eat. Is there anything else?"
"Well, you sort of missed lunch," Cally said somewhat sourly. "This will be ready in about an hour. But there's other stuff to get ready too."
"We'll get on it," Mosovich said with a chuckle. "Just point us in the direction, O Viking princess!"
She shook her head and brandished a burning brand at him then gestured to the house. "Since the sweet corn is still up, I think we should have that again. Cornbread is in the oven. I had the kids pick some broccoli and that probably should be cut up and put in a big dish and microwaved. We could have a side of fresh beets if somebody went out and picked them. Ditto on tomatoes, they're always good with a little seasoning. What am I missing?"
"Beer," Papa O'Neal said, picking up a large set of skewers and jabbing them in the butterflied pig. "And turning this. How long has it been on this side?"
"About an hour," Cally said. "I got Wendy and Shari to help me the last time."
"I'll take over here," O'Neal said. "As long as somebody brings me a beer. You go rule the kitchen. Give these heathens no mercy! Teach them . . . canning!"
"Ah! Not that!" Cally said with a grin. "We don't have anything to can. And besides, they're guests."
"You take all the fun out of it," Papa O'Neal said with a grin. "Go on, I'll handle the meat." As she left he rummaged in a box by the barbeque and pulled out a large stoneware jug. "Here," he said, offering it to Mueller. "Try some of this. It'll put hair on your chest."
"I've always been proud of my relatively hairless chest," Mueller said, tilting the jug back for a drink. He took a sip and spit half of it out, coughing. As the clear liquid hit the fire, it roared up. "Aaaaah."
"Hey, that stuff's prized around here!"
"As what?" Mueller rasped. "Paint stripper?"
Papa O'Neal took the jug and sniffed at it innocently. "Ah, sorry," he said with a chuckle. He reached into the same box and came up with a mason jar. "You're right, that was paint stripper. Try this instead."
* * *
Tommy stood up and raised his mug. "Gentlemen . . . and ladies. Absent companions."
"Absent companions," the rest of the room murmured.
Having released the troops to descend upon the unprotected towns of Newbry and Hollidaysburg, Major O'Neal had decreed that the officers would have a dining in. His stated reason for this was to start integrating the two new officers they had received, but Tommy suspected it was because he was afraid the officers would do more damage than the enlisted.
Major O'Neal stood up and raised his beer. "Gentlemen and ladies: Who Laughs Last."
"Who Laughs Last," the group murmured.
"Sir," Captain Stewart said somewhat thickly. "I think it's important that the new officers become acquainted with the reason for the battalion motto, don't you?"
Mike snorted and looked around. "Duncan, you are our official battalion storyteller. Tell them the story."
Duncan stood up from where he was talking with Captain Slight and took a sip of beer then cleared his throat. "President of the Mess!"
"Yes, Captain?" Tommy said.
"Arrrrgh!" Captain Slight shouted.
"Sacrilege!" Stewart yelled.
"No rank in the mess, Tommy," O'Neal said, waving everyone down.
"President of the Mess!" Duncan continued. "Call the pipers!"
"We don't have any," Tommy complained. "We checked the whole battalion and nobody knows how to play them. And we don't have any pipes anyway."
Stewart leaned over and pointed at a device in the corner, whispering in the lieutenant's ear. Tommy went over and, after whispering to his new AID, keyed the controls.
"But it does appear that we have a pirated version of 'Flowers of the Forest,' " Tommy said. "Lucky us."
Duncan cleared his throat and took another sip of beer as the melancholy notes of a uilleann pipe echoed through the mess.
" 'Twas the darkest days of the fourth wave, January 17th, 2008, when the sky was still filled with the meteoric tracks of Second Fleet, its smashed remains leaving trails of fire across the sky, when, if you cranked up your visor, you could catch a glimpse of the last task force battling its way through the Posleen wave, towing away the pulverized wreck of the Supermonitor Honshu.
"First Battalion, Five Hundred Fifty-Fifth Infantry had been tasked with holding a vital ridgeline outside of Harrisburg, Pennsylvania. From the ridge it was just possible to see the smoke from the final assault on Philadelphia and the millions of fresh Posleen, newly landed from their ships, were even more evident. The Planetary Defense Center to the north was heavily engaged with airmobile landers, and repeated kinetic energy strikes were hammering into it as the battalion sustained wave after wave of suicidal Posleen assaults. Conventional units were heavily engaged to the south, so heavily engaged that they had full priority on all artillery, leaving the battalion to fend for itself. The air was filled with the shriek and silver of grav-gun rounds as the sky was pierced with nuclear fire.