full-size voman!” She thunked a meaty thumb into the center of her own chest. “I don’t think Charlie thinks Katie is skinny!” Frieda laughed. “I don’ care vhat Chollie t’inks neider! Zomebody go tell him I’m ’ere pinink avay to nodink, vaiting
for him!” She turned her attention back to Kerr. “How many a you are dere ’ere donight? I make sure you godda good table. Vell? Answer me!” Kerr hesitated, unsure which of her many questions to answer first. Claypoole stepped into the breech.
“There are eight of us, Big Barb. The corporals.” “Eight corporals?” She quickly scanned the room. “Vat’s de madda vit Corporal Doyle, vhy ain’t he ’ere? He gid kilt vhereever it vas you vent?”
“No, no, Big Barb. Doyle’s fine. This is just the team leaders,” Claypoole quickly assured her.
“Chust da team leaders? ’Ow come Doyle ain’t no team leader? He’s a corporal. Corporals suppose t’ be fire team leaders, gun team leaders, so how come he ain’t?” Claypoole opened his mouth, but couldn’t think of how to explain why a corporal was filling a lance
corporal’s billet. He looked at Kerr. Yeah, Doyle was in Kerr’s fire team, let him try to explain it. “Neber mine,” Big Barb said, looking around again. “You Marines make yer own rules, whedder dey makes sense or not. Come, I get you gut table. Give you back room. You,” she looked at Kerr, “come
vit me. You,” she looked at Claypoole, “go gid de oders, bring dem along.” She did her icebreaker impersonation again, drawing Kerr and his happy burden in her wake. Less than an hour later, the eight Marines and nine young women in the back room were seated around
a large, round table digging into a medley of reindeer served “family style.” The table was filled with platters of reindeer—steaks, cutlets, a roast, chops, sausage, even a steaming bowl of stew. Other bowls held several varieties of potatoes, legumes, grains, squashes, and less easily identifiable foodstuffs, most of which were cooked with sauces or gravies. Spices and condiments were spread about, the full range near to hand for everybody.
For a while, all that was heard inside the room was the chewing, sighs, and belches of contented diners; they ignored the hubbub that came muted through the door. At length, most of the platters and bowls were cleared down to bits and crumbs—Marines fresh back from a combat deployment have prodigious appetites.
Dean belched loudly enough to make Carlala, a skinny, busty girl seated next to him hip to haunch, jump. “Ahhh,” he sighed, “that was great.” “A lot better than the reindeer steaks we used to get here,” Dornhofer agreed. “Very much so,” Kerr added. “What happened?” “We have a new cook,” Klauda said as she moved from her chair to Dornhofer’s lap. “She’s a fancy girl,” Erika said, casting a nasty look at Carlala.
“Oh?” Chan said meaningfully. “Then what’s she doing in the kitchen?” “You’ll see,” Erika said haughtily. “And that’s not the kind of ‘fancy’ I meant.” She darted a look at Dean and made a show of shifting onto Pasquin’s lap.
The hubbub in the main room suddenly grew in volume.
“Oh, wow, look at that!” Lance Corporal “Wolfman” MacIlargie murmured, then let out a wolf whistle.
Lance Corporal Dave “Hammer” Schultz didn’t bother looking to see what had drawn MacIlargie’s admiration; he’d seen her as soon as she stepped through the kitchen door. She was a full-bodied woman in a starched white shirt-jacket, closed all the way to the throat, over black pants. The heels of her black shoes were high enough to lift her a bit above average height. A white cap restrained her mass of lustrous chestnut hair. She held her head high, and her aristocratic face turned neither left nor right as she wended her way between the tables filled with eating and drinking—but mostly drinking— Marines. Two kitchen helpers followed her, guiding a covered cart. The woman was old enough to be the underaged mother of the youngest Marines in the room, or the younger aunt—or at least older sister of nearly any of them. But that didn’t matter to the Marines.
The woman yelped and spun about with her hand raised to slap whoever had just pinched her bottom. Only to be confronted by four grinning faces, any of which could belong to the offending hand. She dropped her hand, gripped the bottom of her shirt-jacket with both hands, and jerked it down. She flung her head high, spun about, and, as regally as possible, stalked off. Guffaws, whistles, and raucous laughter trailed her.
She was pinched twice more and propositioned four times by the time she reached the door to the room where third platoon’s corporals were luxuriating in postprandial bliss, and hustled inside to what she fully expected would be relief from the unseemly harrassment she’d undergone in the common room. She barely remembered to leave the door open long enough for the two kitchen helpers to wheel their cart into the room.
“Hey, baby,” Pasquin shouted as soon as he saw her, “come on over here! My lap’s big enough for two!” He held out a welcoming arm. Erika knuckled him in the ribs, but that only made him laugh.
The woman’s palm tingled, and she began to raise a hand—now she
knew
who to slap—but noticed several faces leering at her, and lowered it without striking.
She again adjusted the fall of her shirt-jacket, held her head regally high, and announced, “I am Einna Orafem, the new chef at Big Barb’s—”
“Chef? Did she really say ‘chef?’ ” Dean crowed.
Einna Orafem managed to ignore Dean’s boorishness and went on as though he hadn’t spoken. “I have been given to believe that you—gentlemen—are special patrons of this dining salon.”
“Patrons? Dining salon?” Barber hooted.
Once more, Einna Orafem ignored the rudeness of the remark and went on. “I have come to see if the modest repast I prepared for you met with your satisfaction.” She looked at the empty platters and serving bowls. “Judging from the state of the table, I take it it has.”
There was a brief pause as the Marines translated for each other: “She wants to know if the chow was any good.”
“Hey, babe, that was the best feed I’ve ever had in this slop chute!” Taylor called out.
“Honey, you can stuff my sausage any day,” Chan yelled.
“No, it’s
your
sausage that’s supposed to stuff her . . .” The rest of whatever Claypoole was saying was cut off by the finger Jente quickly pressed across his lips. Unlike the other young women around the table, Jente wasn’t one of “Big Barb’s girls.” She was from Brystholde, a nearby fishing village from which many young women had come to a blowout party Brigadier Sturgeon threw for his FIST when they returned from a major deployment against Skinks on the Kingdom of Yahweh and His Saints and Their Apostles. First Sergeant Myer had strongly admonished the Marines of Company L that the village women were “nice girls,” and were to be treated the way they’d want their sisters treated. Of
course, Top’s warning could not stop Jente from latching onto Claypoole and behaving just like one of Big Barb’s girls—but only with him. Claypoole didn’t realize it yet, but Jente saw him as prime husband material.
“Come and join us when Big Barb lets you off kitchen duty!” Pasquin called to Einna Orafem’s brilliant red face.
“Here is a dessert I prepared specially for you,” the cook managed, waving a wavering hand at the cart.
The helpers opened the cart and joined her in a hasty retreat to the kitchen. But first they had to run the gauntlet of the common room.
“Wazza madda, dolly,” someone shouted, “didn’t they want what you were offering?” “Yours ain’t good enough for them corporals?” another Marine shouted. Uproarious laughter broke out at the comments. “She’s the
cook,
” Schultz growled. Everybody close enough to hear his growl shut up.
Jente was the only one fastidious enough while gobbling the dessert to really notice what it was.
CHAPTER TWO
“Who in the hell is that idiot with his mouth hanging open?” Madam Chang-Sturdevant asked, coming halfway out of her chair as she stared at the image on the vid screen.
“Um, that, Madam President, is ah, the Fort Seymour staff duty officer, that is, the officer who was staff duty officer on the day the ah, ‘incident’ occurred,” Huygens Long, the Attorney General answered, glancing at Marcus Berentus and Admiral Porter for confirmation. “You can see by his badges of rank he’s a lieutenant colonel in the army.”
“That’s correct, ma’am,” Porter said. “Mr. Long’s investigation is not complete yet, so we don’t know all the particulars.”
The camera now took in a ragged line of soldiers standing and crouching behind a low stone wall and then panned a long view of the human carnage that lay in the street in front of them. It zoomed in for close-ups of the bodies and Chang-Sturdevant gasped in horror. “Why did we not know about this immediately after it happened?” she asked. Then: “That’s enough, Marcus, I don’t want to see any more.” She put a hand to her face and bowed her head. “Our soldiers did that?” she gestured at the now blank vid screen.
“Yes, ma’am,” Long answered. “The entire incident was filmed by a crew the demonstration organizers invited to cover it. Our troops were unprepared for what happened, so we have no visual record of what they saw. Then the government of Ravenette immediately released the vid to every news agency in the Confederation,” he shrugged. “Their formal protest did not reach us via diplomatic channels until several days after the film was shown via all the Confederation news outlets. Our military people on Ravenette initiated a preliminary investigation and reported what they found to us through channels.
That also took a few days.”
“How many casualties?” Chang-Sturdevant asked in a dull voice.
After a brief pause, Berentus answered, “Well, the only figures we have are from the news media reports, which are based on the information given to them by government sources on Ravenette, but it appears seventy-five were killed outright with about another hundred critically wounded, some of whom will no doubt succumb. Infantry small arms at close range kill thoroughly and without discrimination.”
Chang-Sturdevant snorted in an exasperation she seldom felt for her old friend. “Marcus, sometimes you old war horses really can’t see beyond your toys. There were children among the dead!”
“Yes, ma’am, I am aware of that,” Berentus answered evenly, “and they were supposed to be among the casualties. I’m telling you now, it was a setup. Maybe the organizers didn’t know how the demonstration was going to end but they were prepared to show what did happen. I’m sure our investigation will show that our troops were provoked.”
“What good does that do me now, Marcus? I’ve got to preside over a full session of the Congress in ten minutes. What am I going to tell them? Summers has requested time to address the Congress and you know what a goddamned rabble-rouser that bastard is!” Preston Summers was the head of the delegation from Ravenette and a firebrand known for his support of the secession movement.
“We are conducting a full investigation, ma’am,” Long said. “We’ll soon have all the facts and then you can hold a press conference.”
“All right. I’ll let Summers rave on and tell the other delegations we don’t have all the facts yet but will, soon, very soon. I’ll make it clear that if our people opened fire on these demonstrators without cause someone’ll hang for it. That lieutenant colonel looks like a prime candidate to me right now. Meanwhile, Hugh,” she turned to the Attorney General, “you get the chief of the diplomatic service and you, Marcus, Admiral Porter, be here when this session is finished. I want a full briefing on this mess, as far as anyone can give me one at this time, and then I’ll call a news conference.” She paused and sighed then stood, straightening out her suit jacket. “I am getting too old for this,” she smoothed her hair. “Well,” she brightened, “I now don the face of the Great Humanitarian with the cares of all Human Space on my thin shoulders, or, as the playwright put it, ‘Once more into the breach, dear friends, once more!’ ” and then she walked proudly to the door that led out onto the floor of the Congress Hall.
It was absolutely silent in the Congress Hall as Representative Preston Summers concluded his Crime Against Ravenette speech. Summers was an accomplished orator. Here, before the Confederation Congress, his words rolled off his tongue in Shakespearean tones, but back home, among his colleagues, he talked like a hick because that’s how his colleagues talked; Preston Summers played to his audience. Now he was fully wound up:
“This unprecedented act of mayhem by the Confederation’s hirelings, this crime against Ravenette, is but the most heinous of many, aimed by this government and its supporters against the peace-loving people of my home and our allied worlds! I have expressed my outrage against these unfair practices many times in this hallowed hall and will now mention only the many discriminatory tariffs the member worlds have, at the instigation of the President, imposed on us, the unscrupulous business practices this government has tolerated against the citizens of Ravenette, and the introduction of military forces among our people, the only purpose of which is to further oppress us! And now it culminates in this—this horrid act of murder most foul, murder most bloody!
Murder!
”
Summers paused for effect and it was stupendous. Members shouted “Foul! “We demand an accounting!” and directed other words at President Chang-Sturdevant and her government too harsh to repeat. Sped on its way by Beamspace drones, Summers’s speech, however, would be repeated in every corner of Human Space.
Summers waited for the delegates to quiet down. “Now,” he continued, “our demands! We, the government of Ravenette and our allied worlds, demand the immediate withdrawal of all Confederation armed forces from our territories. Furthermore, we demand the lifting of all trade sanctions imposed by member worlds of this Confederation against the goods and services provided by our peoples. Third, we demand the liquidation of all debts incurred by the member worlds of our Coalition as a result of the unfair tariffs and embargoes imposed on us by the following member worlds: St. Brendan’s—”
“Hold on a bloody damned minute there! Madam President! The floor, the floor, please!” Brooks Kennedy, the representative from St. Brendan’s World, shouted.
Summers rattled on and then: “Furthermore, Madam President, if these demands are not met, we of the Coalition of Worlds for which Ravenette speaks with the authority of them all, will formally submit an Act of Secession and withdraw from this Confederation!”
“I demand the floor!” Kennedy shouted. “I’ve heard enough from this blatherskite rogue, Madam President, honorable members! What happened on Ravenette was a tragedy but this damned Coalition Summers is so proud of has been looking for just such an incident for months now! All these people want is an excuse to shirk their just debts. That is just what we’ve come to expect from these people, the descendants of louts and incompetents of whom the best anyone can say is that they settled so far away from the rest of us! I say if they want to leave this Confederation, good! It’d be worth it to give up their debts to get rid of them all! Good riddance to bad rubbish!”
“Is the honorable member from St. Brendan’s World saying that we arranged the massacre of our own people?” Summers asked in a deceptively mild voice.
Brooks Kennedy was so worked up by now that he spoke without thinking. “I so accuse you! A proper investigation will reveal that the so-called ‘Crime Against Ravenette’ was planned and fomented by radicals who want only to secede from this Confederation and are willing to sacrifice the lives of their own people to achieve that goal!”
Many believed the cane Preston Summers always carried with him was a prop, that there was nothing at all wrong with his left leg that required its use. Now, before anyone could stop him, he demonstrated what the cane was really meant for by leaping across the aisle that separated him from where Congressman Kennedy sat and bringing it down forcefully on the other man’s upraised arm, breaking it. The blow was clearly heard throughout the chamber. He struck again, this time fracturing Kennedy’s skull and driving him to the floor.
“Sergeant at Arms!” Chang-Sturdevant shouted but already the burly ex-sergeant major of infantry who was the congressional sergeant at arms was bulling his way through the astonished delegates. Grabbing Summers by the collar he threw him to the floor and pinned him there while other members assisted the bleeding Kennedy to his feet. “That’s a good gentleman, now,” the sergeant at arms whispered, “no more of your violence in this chamber, sir.”
“Fuck you—” Summers began but the sergeant at arms finished the sentence with a massive fist to the congressman’s jaw. Later a member of the Ravenette delegation who had been standing nearby quietly retrieved Summers’ cane. It was returned to him with the following motto inscribed on it: “HIT HIM AGAIN!”
“Order! Order!” Chang-Sturdevant shouted. “Order! Ladies and gentlemen, order, please! This session is now concluded. I will be giving a press conference at sixteen hours.” She beckoned to her aides and left the chamber. “Now,” she was heard to mutter, “we’ll find out just what in the hell’s going on.”