Empire Of Man 3 - March to the Stars (59 page)

“We'll call on them to surrender, try to keep casualties to a minimum, and pay Georgescu off when we get back,” the captain said. "I suppose we could simply say that we're commandeering the ship and ask the captain to come down to the surface to surrender, but then there's the little issue of there being a price on our heads.

“If I thought there was a chance in hell that we'd do anything but get ourselves disappeared when we returned, I'd turn us over to the first authorities we found,” he continued with a frown. “But there isn't one. Jackson couldn't afford not to make us disappear.”

“Do you think he was the one who put the toombie on DeGlopper?” Kosutic asked. They'd lost so many Marines on the trip that she had a hard time even coming up with all the names, but she remembered shooting Ensign Guha as if it had happened yesterday. Killing a person who was acting under his own volition was one thing. Shooting that toombie—a good junior officer who'd desperately wanted to do anything but what the chip in her head was telling her to do—still made her sick to her stomach. Even if the shot had saved the ship.

“Probably,” Pahner sighed. “As the head of the Military Committee in the Lords, he had the contacts and the knowledge. And he was no friend of the Empress.”

“Which means he also killed the rest of the Family,” the sergeant major said. “I'd like some confirmation, but I think that he's one person I'll take active pleasure in terminating with as much prejudice as humanly possible.”

“We will require confirmation that the Empress isn't in full and knowing agreement with his handling of the situation,” Pahner said. “I don't think there's any doubt that she isn't, but getting hard proof of that will be . . . interesting. I have a few ideas on the subject—where to begin, at least—but before we can do anything about it one way or the other, we need a ship.” He waved to Honal, who'd been overseeing the training. “Round them up, Honal. We're expecting company.”

“Good!” the Vashin said. “I'm looking forward to ship combat. And I like the thought of seeing all those other worlds you keep talking about.”

“So do I,” Pahner said quietly. “And especially to seeing one that's not Marduk.”

* * *

“Captain.” Roger nodded in greeting as the Marines walked into the command center. “It looks like everything is prepared to receive visitors.”

“It had better be,” Pahner growled. “We've only been getting ready for the last two weeks.”

“I was thinking. You have any major plans between now and when we launch the shuttles?”

“Nothing I'd classify as major,” the Marine said. “Why?”

“In that case, I was thinking it would be a good idea to have a party,” Roger said with a smile. “I've done up a few suitable awards. . . .”

* * *

Roger had been a bit put out to discover that he hadn't originated the concept of the dining-in. But after he watched Pahner and Kosutic put together the plan for the evening in less than five minutes, he was less upset.

The sun was setting over the mountains in the west as the majority of the group that had fought its way to the spaceport gathered around tables arranged under awnings. The spaceport's mountain plateau was much higher and drier than most of Marduk, which gave a rare clear sky and a view of both of the moons. It was also much cooler, but the Mardukans' new uniforms finally made them immune to the torpor which set in with the evening's chill.

Supper was a seven-course dinner. It started with fruits gathered from their entire trip, and everyone agreed that the winner was either the K'Vaernian sea-plum or Marshad's kate fruit. The wine was a light white from a vineyard in the Marshad plain that came highly recommended by T'Leen Targ. The second course was wine-basted coll fish flown in from K'Vaern's Cove—small, tender ones, not steaks from giant coll—accompanied by nearpotatoes skillet fried with slivered Ran Tai peppers. The wine for the second course, a light, sweet sea-plum vintage which had been recommended by T'Seela of Sindi, was perfect for cooling the palette after the peppers.

The third course was a fruit-basted basik on a bed of barleyrice. Roger's table was presented with a very large platter. Several normal basik had been clustered around a sculpture of a very large, very pointy-toothed basik made out of barleyrice. The wine for that course was a kate-fruit vintage from the new vineyards around Voitan.

The fourth course was the piece de resistance. Julian had gone out and single-handedly downed a damnbeast, using nothing more than a squad of backup and a bead cannon, and his prize was served roasted as whole as possible. A certain amount of careful rearrangement had been required to cover up the enormous hole in its neck, and it was delivered on a giant platter carried in by six of the local Krath servants. Julian personally officiated over the carving of the steaks, which were served along with peruz-spiced barleyrice and steamed vegetables. The wine was a vintage from Ran Tai that the company had come to like during its sojourn there.

The remaining courses were desserts and niblets, and the feast culminated with everyone sitting around on the ground, picking bits of damnbeast out of their teeth while they tried to decide how much wine they could drink.

Finally, as the last course was cleared, Roger stood and raised his wine glass.

“Siddown!” Julian called.

“Yes, sit, Roger,” Pahner said. “Let's see . . . I think . . . Yes, Niederberger! You're to give the toast.”

The designated private took a hasty gulp of wine, then stood while Gunny Jin whispered in his ear. He cleared his throat and raised his glass.

“Ladies and Gentlemen, Her Majesty, Alexandra the Seventh, Empress of Man! Long may she reign!”

“The Empress!” The response rumbled back at him, and he tried not to scurry as he settled back into his chair in obvious relief.

“Now you stand up, Roger,” Pahner said.

“Shouldn't it be you?” Roger asked.

“Nah. You're the senior officer, Colonel,” the captain said with a grin.

“No rank in the mess!” Julian called.

“I was just pointing it out,” Pahner said. “Your turn, Roger.”

“Okay.” Roger got to his feet again. “Ladies and Gentlemen, absent companions!”

“Absent companions!”

“Before we get into any more toasts,” Roger continued, waving Julian back down, “I have a few words I'd like to say.”

“Speech! Speech!” Poertena yelled, and most of the Vashin joined in. The armorer had taken a table with them, even though they'd made it clear that they didn't want to play cards.

“Not a speech,” Roger disagreed, and held out his hand to Despreaux. She handed over a sizable sack, then sat back down with a smile.

“On the auspicious occasion of us almost getting off this mudball,” Roger said. “Sorry to all you people who were born here, by the way. But on this occasion, I think it's fitting that we distribute a few mementos. Things to remember our trip by.”

“Uh-oh,” Kosutic whispered. “Did you know about this?”

“Yep.” Pahner grinned. “Or, rather, I found out just in time.”

“Lessee,” Roger said, pulling out a piece of plastscrip and a small medallion. “Ah, yes. To St. John (J), and St. John (M). A silver 'M' and a silver 'J,' so that we can frigging tell you apart!”

Roger beamed as the twin brothers made their way up to accept their gifts, then shook their hands (Mark's had regenerated quite nicely since Kirsti) as he handed over the mementos.

“Wear 'em in good health. Now, what else do we have? Ah, yes.” He reached into the sack and pulled out a wrench no more than three centimeters long. “To Poertena, a little pocking wrench, for beating up on little pocking bits of armor!”

He continued in the same vein through the entire remaining unit of Marines and many of the Vashin and Diasprans, showing that he recognized their individual quirks and personality traits. It took almost an hour of mingled laughter and groans before he started wrapping up.

“To PFC Gronningen,” he said, holding up a silver badge. “The unsleeping silver eye. Because you know Julian is going to get you, sooner or later.”

He handed the badge to the grinning Asgardian and punched him on the shoulder.

“You're doomed. You know that, right?”

“Oh, yeah.”

“Lessee. We're getting near the bottom of the bag. . . . Oh, yes. To Adib Julian, a marksman's badge with a 'no' symbol over it. The marksman's bolo badge for always being second in any shooting match!”

Julian accepted it with good grace, and the prince turned to the sergeant major, Pahner, and the senior Mardukans.

“I'd considered the unsleeping eye for Rastar, as well,” Roger said, and the wave of human chuckles was swamped in grunting Mardukan laughter as the Marines and the Vashin alike recalled their first meeting and Roger's ambush of the sleeping Rastar. “But in the end, I decided on this.” He reached into the bag and withdrew an elaborately chased set of Mardukan-sized bead pistols. “May you never run out of ammo.”

“Thank you, Your Highness.” Rastar accepted the gift with a flourishing bow.

“No rank in the mess,” Roger reminded him, and turned to his next victim. “For Krindi, a set of Zuiko binoculars. It seems you're never able to fight at long range, but what the heck.”

“Thank you, Y—Roger,” the Diaspran said, and took the imaging system with a slight bow of his own.

“To Eva Kosutic, our own personal Satanist,” Roger said, with another grin, and handed her a small silver pitchfork. “The silver pitchfork medal. She was always there to prod buttock; now she has something to prod with. You can feel free to put it anywhere you like.”

“And yours was always a nice buttock to prod, Roger,” she told him with a grin as she accepted the award. Roger laughed with everyone else, then turned to Cord.

“Cord, what can I say? You've stuck with me through thick and thin, mainly thin.”

“You can say nothing and sit back down,” the shaman replied.

“Nah, not after I went to all this trouble,” the prince said, and winked at Pedi. “Okay, we have: a package of baby formula Dobrescu promises me will work for Mardukan kids just fine. A package of disposable diapers—I know you guys stick your kids in your slime, but when we get among humans, that might not always be an option. A set of four baby blankets—what can I say, do you always have to have quartets? And last, but most certainly not least, a set of earplugs. Just for Cord, though. He's going to need them.”

“Oh, thank you very much, Roger,” Cord said, accepting the items and sitting down.

“Don't think of it as a roast,” Roger told him. “Think of it as a baby shower.”

“What is that?” Pedi asked Despreaux quietly.

“Normally,” the Marine whispered back, “it's when you give gifts that can help with an expected baby. In this case, though, Roger is twitting Cord.”

“And here comes Dogzard,” Roger said, looking under the table.

The beast raised her head as she heard her name, then she leapt to her feet when she saw her master's body posture.

“Dat's a good Dogzard,” Roger told her, and pulled a huge leg of damnbeast off the table. “Who's a good beastie, then?”

The semi-lizard snatched the bone out of Roger's hand and retreated back under the table. Her meter-and-a-half-long tail stuck well out from under it, lashing happily from side to side, and Roger waved his hand.

“Ow, ow!” He counted his fingers ostentatiously, then sighed in relief while everyone laughed. But then the prince lowered his hands, and turned to the last person on his list.

“And so we come to Armand Pahner,” he said seriously, and the laughter stilled. “What do you present to the officer who held you together for eight horrible months? Who never wavered? Who never faltered? Who never for one instant let us think that we might fail? What do you give to the man who took a sniveling brat and made a man of him?”

“Nothing, for preference,” Pahner said. “It really was my job.”

“Still,” Roger said, and reached into the now all but empty bag to pull out a small badge. “I present you the Order of the Bronze Shield. If I can, I'm going to have Mother turn it into an order of knighthood; we need at least one more. For service above and beyond the call of duty to the Crown. Thank you, Armand. You've been more than you've needed to be at every turn. I know we still have a long way to go, but I'm confident that we can get there, together.”

“Thanks, Roger.” The captain stood to accept the gift. “And I have a little present for you, as well.”

“Oh?”

“Yes.” The Marine cleared his throat formally. "Long before the ISU, before the Empire of Man, in the dawn of the space age, there was a mighty nation called the United States. As Rome before it, it rose in a pillar of flame and eventually fell. But during its heyday, it had a few medals to reckon with.

"There were many awards and ribbons, but one, while common, perhaps surpassed them all. It was a simple rifle on a field of blue, surrounded by a wreath. What it meant was that the wearer had been where the bullets flew, and probably shot at people himself, and had returned from the fire. It meant, simply, that the wearer had seen infantry combat, and survived. All the other medals, really, were simply icing on that cake, and like the ISU before it, the Empire has maintained that same award . . . and for the same reasons.

“Prince Roger Ramius Sergei Alexander Chiang MacClintock,” the captain said, as he took the newly minted badge from Sergeant Major Kosutic and pinned it onto the prince's uniform, “I award you the Combat Infantryman's Badge. You have walked into the fire again and again, and come out not unscathed, but at least, thank God, alive. If your mother gives you all the medals you deserve, you're going to look like a neobarb world dictator. But I hope that you think of this one, sometimes, because, really, it says it all.”

“Thank you, Armand,” Roger said quietly.

“No, thank you,” Pahner replied, putting his hand on the prince's shoulder. “For making the transition. For surviving. Hell, for saving all of our asses. Thank you from all of us.”

* * *

The party had descended to the point at which Erkum Pol had to be dragged down before he hit someone with a plank, and Roger had gotten Despreaux off to one side. She'd been quiet all night, and he thought he knew why.