Starfist: FlashFire (4 page)

Fortunately, the bartender was able to find a dusty bottle of Katzenwasser ’35 hidden in a deep recess under the bar. It wasn’t as fine a vintage as the ’36, but far better in Bass’s view than Alhambran retsina.

When dinner was finally served, he loved the Dominion veal-lamb chops, but refused to even taste the roast roc haunch. Katie found the Xanadu roc a bit gamey, but otherwise quite delicious. They splurged on a cup of Jamaican Blue Mountain coffee with a dessert of Novo Kongor tart.

Katie dragged Bass out of Big Barb’s just before Einna Orafem came out of the kitchen again so he missed the fun.

During the course of the meal consumed by Ensign Charlie Bass and his lady, the common room had filled with nearly a hundred Marines, eating and drinking—mostly drinking. And that didn’t count the thirty or more Marines who crowded the bar that stood along one wall, or the local fishermen and rowdies who also used Big Barb’s as their home away from home. Staff Sergeant Hyakowa was elsewhere, as befitted his rank, but most of the rest of third platoon had filtered in. Nearly every one of them paused briefly to exchange compliments with Bass and Katie. No more than brief compliments. After all, Charlie Bass was no longer a gunnery sergeant, he was a commissioned officer, and therefore looked upon askance by the enlisted men. Besides, he was with his lady, and nobody wanted to take a chance of screwing things up for him for the night; any screwing to be done was up to him. It didn’t take much muscle flexing for third platoon to clear a clump of tables midway along the wall opposite the bar, especially when Lance Corporal Schultz pointed at a table and growled, “Mine.”

Then Einna Orafem braved her way through the common room to see how Bass and Katie liked their dinner—she found the common room several magnitudes of rowdiness greater than it had been earlier. She groaned silently when she realized the couple had already left, and turned to make her way back to the kitchen. Catcalls and whistles had started as soon as she stepped into the common room, increased as she made her way through, and reached a crescendo when she turned back.

She had made only two steps before a slap to the rear caused her to shriek and jump. The catcalls and whistles changed to laughs and cheers as she tried to run away. But after just two steps, an arm reached out and seized her around the waist. The arm belonged to a lance corporal from the FIST Dragon company, who pulled her onto his lap.

“What’s your hurry, honey?” the lance corporal roared. “You’re new here, you gotta get with the program and meet the customers, get friendly with us!”

“But I’m the
chef
!” Einna jerked free of his arm and bounded away but was quickly hemmed in by several Marines who left their seats to surround her.

“Come on, baby, where’s your spirit?”

“How are you going to make any money if you don’t get friendly?”

“Ignore them, I can take you to heaven!”

Einna spun about, in growing panic, her mouth open in silent screams. Suddenly a hole opened in the circle surrounding her, and a huge figure filled it.

Three words, sounding like a small avalanche, rumbled out of that huge figure: “She’s the
cook
!”

The catcalls, whistles, laughs, and cheers died.

The Marines who had stood to surround Einna Orafem dropped back into chairs, and weren’t very particular about whether they landed in the same ones from which they’d risen—or even if the chairs

were already occupied. “Ain’t Big Barb’s girl, she’s the
cook
! Leave her alone!” In Einna’s eyes, the huge form resolved itself into a very large, copper-skinned Marine. She flung

herself at him for protection. His collar with its rank insignia was just above her eye level. She wasn’t familiar with the device, but she knew he wasn’t an officer, probably not even a corporal. But she didn’t care; he’d made the others leave her alone.

“Thank you,” she said, sobbing. “Come,” the big Marine rumbled. He gently put an arm around her shoulders and turned her toward the kitchen. The room was silent as the two made their way to the kitchen, the father of all sheepdogs

herding a lost lamb through a pack of hungry but frightened wolves. It wasn’t until the kitchen door closed behind them that the silence was broken. “Way to go, Hammer!” Corporal Claypoole shouted. Inside the kitchen, Schultz lightly lifted Einna Orafem and sat her on a counter. He held out a hand and

snapped his fingers. Someone hurriedly shoved an almost-clean towel into it, and he gently daubed it at

her cheeks and around her eyes, blotting away the tears, and only incidentally smearing her makeup. Einna stopped crying, gave one big shudder, hiccuped, and slumped, still; Schultz put a hand on her shoulder to keep her from falling over. Only then did the big Marine look around at the kitchen staff. They stared at him, awed. He returned their stares, and they abruptly made themselves scarce.

“Okay,” he said, looking at her again when they were alone. He wasn’t asking if she was all right, he

was
telling
her she was. She straightened slightly, glancing at the steadying hand that had remained on her shoulder since he’d wiped her tears away, then looking into his eyes. “Thank you,” she murmured. “You saved me.”

He grunted. His grunt seemed to say it was no big deal. “They won’t bother me anymore, will they?” “No.” The word seemed to come from deep inside a bottomless cave. “What’s your name?” “Schultz.” “You’re not an officer, are you?” He just looked at her. “You’re not even a corporal, are you?” His head barely moved side to side. She thought, what were the ranks she’d heard the Marines had? “Lance corporal?” “Yes.” “Well, now, Lance Corporal Schultz,” she said briskly, shaking herself and sitting straight, “for as long

as I continue to work here, whenever you come in, you get the best meal I can prepare for you. On the house.”

He raised an eyebrow. “I’m the chef, I can do that. You’ll probably have to pay for your beer, but your food is free. That’s the least I can do for you.”

“Okay?” This time it
was
a question.

“Yes, I’m all right now. You can rejoin your friends.”

Schultz removed his hand from her shoulder, but before he could turn, she threw her arms around his neck and kissed him full on the lips. Then, as though shocked by her own actions, she jerked back and dropped her hands primly into her lap.

“Thank you,” she softly said again, and watched his broad back as he left the kitchen. He was younger than her, almost all of them except that Ensign Bass were, but not by many years.

She shook herself and wondered why she’d thought that.

Schultz didn’t have to say anything when he returned to the common room. He didn’t even have to look around. Everybody knew that Einna Orafem was now under his protection, and
nobody
wanted to cross Hammer Schultz.

So things went for a couple of weeks more. During the days the Marines of 34th FIST stood minor daily inspections, drilled on their parade grounds, sat through lectures and trids in company classrooms, cleaned their weapons and gear, and engaged in physical fitness routines and hand-to-hand combat training. In the evenings they pulled liberty, did or did not go into Bronnysund, maybe stayed on base and went to fliks, ate in the mess halls or at Pete’s Place, the civilian-run restaurant on base, worked on their Marine Corps Institute courses, studied for promotion exams, or read for the sheer pleasure of reading. On weekends, nearly everybody headed for town. True to her word, Einna Orafem made sure Lance Corporal Schultz ate well and for free. Not that she ever left the sanctuary of her kitchen; she had the girls on table duty tell her when he came in. And, of course, Schultz never went into the kitchen.

Then things changed.

Captain Conorado, commander of Company L, looked over his Marines at morning formation on First Day two weeks after Schultz rescued Einna Orafem and announced, “We have an IG one month from today.” He ignored the groans from the ranks, there weren’t many of them and they weren’t loud. Not many of the Marines in the company had been through the grueling experience of an Inspector General’s inspection. In a month, the announcement of an IG inspection would set off such a chorus of complaints that he might have to take disciplinary action to quell them.

“You have one week to get everything squared away,” Conorado continued. “Next First Day, there will be a platoon commander’s pre-IG. You will then have one day to rectify any discrepancies before a company commander’s pre-IG. The First Day after that, you will stand a battalion commander’s pre-IG, followed a week later by FIST pre-IG.

“After all that, the gods help anybody who isn’t ready to ace the IG’s inspection.

“Platoon commanders, to the company office. Company Gunnery Sergeant, front and center!”

Gunnery Sergeant Thatcher, Company L’s second-ranking enlisted man, advanced from his position at the right front of the formation, came to attention in front of Conorado, and sharply lifted his right hand in salute.

Conorado returned the salute and both Marines dropped their hands. “Gunnery Sergeant, when I release the company to you, you will have the platoon sergeants begin preparing their Marines for the first pre-IG.”

“Aye aye, sir!” Thatcher replied.

“Gunnery Sergeant, the company is yours.”

Thatcher raised his hand in salute again. “Sir, the company is mine.”

Conorado returned the salute, about-faced, and headed into the barracks, followed by the company’s other officers.

Thatcher watched the CO until he and all the other officers were inside the barracks, then turned about, shook his head, and looked over the company from one end to the other.

“Most of you don’t know what kind of fun and games you’re in for. Lucky you. You’re not going to think you’re very lucky a month from now, though.

“Platoon sergeants, you heard the man. When I dismiss the company, get your people inside and begin preparing them for the IG.”

Again, he looked the company over from end to end, then bellowed, “COMP-ney, dis-MISSED!”

The Marines broke ranks and gathered expectantly around their platoon sergeants, many shouting questions.

Staff Sergeant Hyakowa raised his hands and patted the air to silence the questions being thrown at him. When the hubbub reduced he told third platoon, “Think of the toughest junk-on-the-bunk you’ve ever stood. Magnify it by ten. That’s where the IG starts. It gets worse from there. Fire teams, head for your quarters. Fire team leaders, begin inspecting everything your people have in your rooms. Squad leaders, to my quarters. Move it!”

The week was a madness of long hours, normally lasting until almost taps, as the Marines checked to make certain they had every piece of equipment the manual called for, that each piece was in tiptop condition, and was faultlessly clean and fully functional. They carefully went through all of their personal belongings, separating out those things they’d have need for during the coming four weeks, and those they could manage without. The latter, they packed in seabags that were then stowed in the company supply room.

Sergeant Souavi, the supply sergeant, didn’t deliberately make them stand long times in line at the entrance to the supply room. But they stood for long waits anyway as he inspected the outside of each seabag brought to him for storage to make sure it was properly labeled with its owner’s name and particulars, and properly sealed and secured so no one could be accused of pilferage. Then he had to stow each seabag in such a manner that it wouldn’t be crushed by the bags above it, and so any bag could be quickly found and retrieved if it was necessary to remove one from storage.

The Marines organized the items they felt they couldn’t live without for the next four weeks so they were ready to hand and easily packed into a valise that would go into the supply room the day before each pre-IG inspection as well as before the big one.

Sergeant Souavi muttered to himself that he’d
really
make them stand in long lines waiting to stow their valises, because that meant he’d have to spend the day before each inspection storing the bags of personal items. But he didn’t really mean it; each level of inspection would include the company supply room and he’d be graded by how well the seabags and valises were stowed. He knew that by the time the IG showed up, he’d be able to store everything properly in his sleep.

CHAPTER FOUR

“Wall, Miz Humpfriz, that ain’t hardly what we want,” Halbred Stutz drawled. The red splotches on his face flared even redder as he spoke and it seemed to Wellington-Humphreys that the thick black hairs protruding from the nostrils of his bulbous nose vibrated with a life of their own. In an earlier age, she reflected sourly, this caricature of a man would have been dressed in sweat-stained shirtsleeves, thumbs hooked into his galluses, and a huge chaw of tobacco stuck in one cheek.

They had been sitting for hours already, had endured a long lecture on the Fort Seymour incident, which Wellington-Humphreys had managed to terminate with assurances of a full investigation, justice, and compensation for the victims. Befitting her long experience and skill as a diplomat, Wellington-Humphreys successfully concealed the disgust and anger that had been boiling inside her. The secessionists had deliberately selected unqualified individuals to represent them at the negotiations, nobodies in fact, while her own government was being represented by its highest officials. Sitting next to her was the Confederation’s distinguished Minister of Commerce, Dr. Rafe Pieters. She didn’t know what qualifications the ridiculous little man named Stutz had to be leading the Coalition’s negotiating team, aside from the fact that on his home world of Hobcaw he owned several million hectares of arable land that he farmed.

“Y’see, we are an ag-ri-cul-tur-al world, us Cob’uns,” Stutz emphasized the word “agricultural” as if speaking to ignorant schoolchildren, “and our economy depends on its produce exports.”

“We are prepared to offer substantial subsidies, sir,” Pieters said.

“Yeah? Wall, that was tried a long time ago, folks, ’n it din work then neither. You pay us for not growing crops we can’t export anyhow and before you know it we’ll be dependent on yer handouts. No, siree!”

“It would only be for an interim period, Mr. Stutz,” Pieters replied. “It will take some time to get the other member worlds to accept your produce and manufactures into their own markets in exchange for things they can provide that you need on Hobcaw and the other worlds in your Coalition.”

“We don’t have a lot of time, Mr. Minister Pieters,” Stutz replied. “Our trade deficit with your member worlds reached twenty trillion last fiscal year and it’s gettin’ higher the longer we sit on our rumps here banging our chops. And your bankers, their only fix is to loan us more money to pay off our debts at interest rates that only get us deeper into the debt cycle. You gotta remember, even though there’s twelve of us in our Coalition, we’re still underpopulated, compared to the longer-settled places, and that deficit is holding back our development. Your financiers are strangling us! The way we figure it, if we was totally independent of the trade policies and treaties your government has cooked up we could go at each member world separately and haggle our own agreements.”

“Well, Mr. Stutz,” Pieters leaned forward as he spoke, “this is merely our preliminary meeting, a session to familiarize ourselves with the problems. Their resolution will take time, sir. Surely your members would agree that if we can settle these issues to their satisfaction the time would be well spent?” Stutz did not reply, only gazed at the Commerce Minister through half-lidded eyes. Frustrated by the lack of response, Pieters tried being conciliatory. “We agree there are disadvantageous imbalances in our trade relations with your worlds and we’re here to see if we can eliminate them.”

“But you must try to see things from our perspective,” Wellington-Humphreys added. “There was the outbreak of ‘Mad Tomato Disease’ five years ago that severely damaged your truck garden exports and —”

“That was utter hysteria, madam,” Stutz interjected, “typical of the paranoia that has always manifested itself in your relations with us.” He smiled, revealing jagged, yellowed teeth.