by J. L. Doty
To York’s right a woman’s voice said, “You know the rules, Mieka.” York snuck a look that way, saw a large woman standing behind the bar, the proprietress of the place. “Navy comes in here, Mieka, he takes his chances.”
Palevi’s eyes darkened. “I said he’s my CO.”
Terk shook her head. “He’s wearing a navy tunic so he’s fuckin’ navy as far as I’m concerned.” She looked at the hulk. “Go ahead, Meat.”
The hulk’s eyes lit up with pleasure, but before he could deliver the blow Palevi stopped them all short by bellowing out in his loudest drill sergeant, parade ground voice, “Invaradin Atteeuun . . . shuuuuun!”
There came a sudden crashing of tables and chairs as marines all over the place jumped to attention. The hulk froze. The music died slowly, disjointedly. The two dancers stopped. The marine that had joined them on their pedestal was one of those standing at attention, his pants down, his penis half erect.
With the convoy gone the only other military ships around Dumark were Nostran and another small destroyer Irriahm, and clearly Invaradin’s marines had them badly outnumbered.
Palevi spoke softly, but in the silence his voice boomed. “Meat, the man you’re about to lay into is Cap’em York Ballin. Now I don’t care what kind of tunic he’s wearing, me and the rest of his people won’t take it kindly if you hurt him.”
“Now, Mieka,” the proprietress said. “Don’t you go bustin’ up my place.”
Palevi looked hungrily at Terk, but he spoke to the proprietress. “Well now, Salley. That all depends on Terk here.”
Meat looked at Terk. Terk looked at Salley as if she were an appropriate referee. Salley looked at Palevi. “He’s really Ballin?” the proprietress asked.
Palevi nodded. “Look at his face.”
They all looked for a moment at the scars on York’s face, then they looked at Terk while she in turn looked carefully at each of them, then she shrugged. “Well if Mieka says he’s Ballin then I gotta believe it. Let him go, Meat.”
Meat let York down. Salley waved at the band and the music started again. The dancers returned to their dance, if you could call it that, but not one of Palevi’s marines moved so much as a muscle.
Salley pleaded, “Come on, Mieka.”
Palevi looked at Terk, then at York. “Cap’em?”
It took York a second to realize Palevi was waiting for him. He nodded his permission, as if he were actually in control of his marines, and Palevi bellowed, “As you were.” The Drop Zone exploded with a roar.
Terk stepped up to him, peered into his face without compunction and examined his eye and the scars. “You get that on Trinivan?”
York nodded. She stuck out her hand and he shook it. “Terk Yagell,” she said. “Staff sergeant on the Nostran.” She nodded toward Meat. “Corporal Jaspin Cleaver.”
Meat stuck out a paw the size of both York’s hands put together. York shook it warily. “Glad to meet ya, Cap’em. You can call me Meat like everyone else.”
Salley grabbed York by an arm, pulled him to the bar. She reached behind it, dug out an old bar rag and handed it to him. “Put that on or you’ll get yourself killed in here.”
It was an old, faded marine tunic. York pulled off his navy tunic—it was torn and stained with dried blood anyway—discarded it and pulled on the old marine tunic. Salley pinned captain’s bars on his shoulders, though they were crooked. “There,” she said. “That’ll do, Cap’em.” She handed York a drink.
York reached into his pocket for script, but Salley shook her head. “Senior Drop Officer don’t buy his own drinks here.”
York frowned. Salley frowned back at him, looked at Palevi. “Mieka, I don’t think he knows yet.”
Palevi slapped York on the back. “Ain’t you heard, Cap’em? Sadeline bought it fifteen days ago. Yer the new SDO. Look.” Palevi pointed at a large board above the bar where someone had scrawled the name Sadeline along with a date. “It’s been confirmed, Cap’em.”
Beneath Sadeline’s name was Ballin, with no date, but a string of meaningless numbers behind it.
York asked, “What’re the numbers for?”
Palevi shrugged. “The odds, sir.”
“What odds?”
“Odds on whether or not the new SDO’ll make it through his first drop alive.”
York nodded carefully, looked at the date behind Sadeline’s name. “And that’s the date Sadeline bought it?”
“That’s right, sir.”
“First drop?” York asked. “Not next drop?”
Palevi nodded. “First drop as SDO.”
York asked carefully, “Can I bet on myself? And what kind of odds do I get?”
Palevi looked a little sheepish. “About twenty to one, sir. Not too many betting your way.”
York looked at Terk, asked, “You got any money down.”
“Ya,” she said confidently, then reached into her pocket and pulled out a wad of script. “In fact—Salley, now I’ve met him, put me down for another hundred imperials against.”
Salley took Yagell’s wad of script, began counting it.
“Salley,” York said. “How much to cover all outstanding bets?”
Salley, in the process of entering Terk’s bet, looked up. Her eyebrows wrinkled. “About two thousand imperials. That’s a lot, Cap’em.”
“Whew!” someone whistled, and a crowd gathered around York.
York spoke confidently. “I’m good for it.”
Salley shook her head. “No IOU’s, Cap’em. Gotta be cash. I mean if you lose, who’s gonna pay off?”
“Okay,” York said. “Bring me a credit terminal.”
The crowd around him was building as Salley brought out a small electronic box, put it on the bar. York told her to “just enter the right amount,” knowing his account would cover it, though just barely. She did so, and he thumb printed the transaction.
Salley shook her head. “That’s a mighty big bet, Cap’em.”
“I know,” York said. He stuck out his hand. “Now pay up. I’ve won.”
Someone grumbled something unpleasant. Salley looked at York blankly. York pointed to the board and the date Sadeline had been killed. “Sadeline bought it the day before we made transition into Trinivanian nearspace. So the drop on Trinivan was my first drop as SDO. I’m still alive, so pay up.”
Palevi threw back his head and bellowed out a laugh. There was a short argument, but eventually they all agreed, though reluctantly, that York had won the bet. Salley brought out the credit terminal, transferred a considerable sum into York’s account.
“Come on, Cap’em,” Palevi said. “You’re a fuckin’ rich man, and we got a prime table other side of the room.”
As they turned away from the bar, leaving behind the crowd gathered there, Palevi said the oddest thing. “By the way, Cap’em, thanks for not killing Meat back there.”
York started, saw Terk frown uncertainly, realized Palevi had spoken for her benefit, and just loud enough for her to hear. York was about to say something to the effect that he couldn’t have killed the big marine if he’d wanted to, but realized Palevi was playing with Terk. His marines were quite proud that their CO was the SDO, so he played along. “Just see to it he doesn’t make that mistake again, Sergeant.”
“Yes, sir.”
They cut their way slowly through the dense crowd and became part of the roar, the din. They passed a crap table surrounded by marines. One of the bargirls was sitting in the middle of the table, her skirt haphazardly bunched about her thighs. Any undergarments she might have been wearing earlier were long since gone. As the marines placed their bets, throwing script out onto the table, she collected it eagerly. It would be winner take all.
A female marine stumbled in his way, a barboy on her arm, staggering toward an exit.
Palevi pulled York to a large table in the center of the crowd. Mec Notay sat there in a barboy’s lap while he kissed her neck. Baddin Hyer, Larwa Tathit and the corporal from the Trinivanian embassy�
��York had to think carefully to remember her name, Elkiss—were in the middle of a poker hand. Next to them a young woman wearing second lieutenant’s bars lay face down on the table, a motionless cascade of long red hair sprawled in spilled beer and whiskey. Palevi took in the table with a sweep of his hand. “NCO and officer’s country, Cap’em.”
Someone shoved a chair into the back of York’s legs. He fell into it, spilled some of his drink. He nodded toward the young, unconscious, red headed officer. “Who’s that?”
Yagell grinned. “That’s Simorka, CO on the Irriahm, though she can’t CO shit yet. Rookie, got a lot to learn, not too happy about being out here.”
Elkiss looked up from the card game, grabbed her drink, nodded toward York’s. “Drink up, Cap’em,” she said, threw her own drink down in a gulp. York followed suit, almost blew it back up in their faces, trate, not sufficiently diluted, fire on the back of his throat.
Tathit leaned against him, threw an arm over his shoulders. “Rotten shit, ain’t it, sir?”
York, still trying to hold the drink down, nodded. He had a long way to go to catch up with these people.
“Ya know, sir,” Tathit said, having trouble focusing her eyes. “I didn’t think you’d make much of a marine. But I gotta admit I was wrong. Fuckin right! Yer a fuckin’ good marine.” She looked at the rest of the table. “Ain’t he?”
All agreed drunkenly that York was a “. . . fuckin’ good marine.”
Tathit turned back to York. “And yer kinda cute too, sir. You get tired of the hookers here, just let me know. I’ll give you a good roll any time you want.”
One of the bargirls dropped into York’s lap, started rubbing the inside of his thigh, spoke in broken standard. “Meereen wanting good time?” she asked.
Palevi winked. “Don’t worry, Cap’em. Salley imports her boys and girls, keeps ‘em clean too.”
York shook his head.
“Good job,” she said in broken standard. “Meereen get good cheap.”
“He said no,” Tathit grumbled, gave her a shove that knocked her onto the floor.
She picked herself up, apparently unhurt, and dusted herself off. “You liking boys instead? We got young boys, old boys.”
York shook his head again. “No boys. But maybe later—you.”
She smiled. “Later costs more, meereen.”
He shrugged. “Later.”
A private first class with a familiar face, but a name York couldn’t remember, leaned on the table heavily. “Welcome to the Zone, Cap’em,” he said. He put a large glass of diluted trate in front of York, a handful of pills next to it. “Try these, Cap’em.”
York looked at the pills, all kinds and colors. “What are they?” he asked.
The private shrugged and smiled. “I think some of ‘em keep the trate from knocking you out so’s you can drink more. And some of ‘em lift you up, some of ‘em crash you down. As for the rest, who the fuck knows? Who the fuck cares?”
York looked at the marine carefully, then he started laughing. At first it was just a chuckle, but it grew quickly. He threw a couple pills into his mouth, took a gulp of the trate to wash them down, and his laughter turned into loud bellows that brought tears to his eyes. Later he remembered laughing far into the night, beyond drunkenness, beyond sanity, beyond oblivion.
York woke up basically sober, wishing he basically weren’t, sprawled on his back on a bed, no clothes, his mouth open, his head pounding until he thought it might split and blow his brains all over the room. He rolled over, curled up and tried to return to unconsciousness.
“Wake up, meereen.”
The whore screaming at him didn’t help any. He ran his fingers across a three-day-old growth of beard, smacked his lips. His mouth was dry, and if the pounding got any worse it was going to squeeze his brains right out through his ears.
“Wake up, meereen,” the whore screamed in his ear. She grabbed his shoulder, shook it.
He rolled over, took a blind swing at her and missed. “Fuck off.”
“Wake up, meereen. Answering door.”
York opened his eyes for a moment. The pounding got even worse so he closed them again, but an image of the whore remained etched on the back of his eyelids. She was standing with her back to the wall, naked, sagging breasts attached to a body that had seen better days.
“Answering door, meereen.”
“You answer the door.”
“No! Meereen answering door.”
York slowly opened his eyes again. The whore had looked a lot better two nights ago.
He sat up carefully, swung his legs off the bed, gulped hard as his stomach turned a somersault, swallowed bile. But then the pounding started again, and the pain in his head took his mind off his stomach.
The pounding grew louder. He glanced around the whore’s dingy little room, realized a lot of the pounding was coming from the door. “All right,” he shouted. “I’m coming. Just cut the god damn racket.”
He stood unsteadily, staggered to the door and touched the lock mechanism. The door burst open in his face, knocked him across the room back onto the bed. The room filled quickly with marines carrying small guns.
York froze. The whore froze. The marines froze.
Palevi walked into the silence that followed, glanced about the room, bent down to York’s uniform piled on the floor, picked it up and tossed it to York. “You’re offline, Cap’em. Get back online, now.”
York keyed his implants, heard, “. . . are canceled. You are ordered to report in immediately.”
It was a recorded message. York waited for it to repeat. “Bridge Invaradin to all personnel. Watch Condition Red. All leaves are canceled. You are ordered to report in immediately.”
York started pulling on his clothes while Palevi sent his marines back out into the hall with orders to “Seal the place up. Nobody in or out. Anyone opens a door—close it.”
York keyed his implants as he pulled on his tunic. “Ballin reporting,” he said.
The message in his implants ceased, was replaced immediately by the simple statement, “Stand by, Lieutenant.”
York didn’t think he could stand by long with his knees ready to buckle beneath him. But Kalee showed up, dug into his medical kit and produced an injector. “Clear your head, sir?”
York grunted, “Ya.”
The medic casually pressed the barrel of the injector against York’s throat, pulled the trigger. York heard the injector spit, felt a nasty sting on his neck. His head swam for a second, then the fog from the abuses of the past two days cleared, though he knew he’d pay later for this instantaneous relief.
His implants barked with Telyekev’s voice. “Ballin, this is Telyekev. Where the hell have you been?”
“I was offline, sir.”
“You were offline? You know damn well you stay online when you’re off ship.”
“Sorry, sir. It won’t happen again.”
“It better not. You’re with Palevi and his marines, aren’t you?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Good. Get all your marines to the embassy on the double. You’re authorized to commandeer any transportation you need. Use force if necessary and get there fast. We don’t have much time.”
“Pardon me, sir. But I don’t understand.”
“God damn it, York, we’ve got Federals transiting in all over the system. Invaradin’s already under way with Nostran and Irriahm, going to engage, buy you time. I had to scramble, left a lot of crew dirtside. We’re telling everyone to head for the embassy. I want you and your marines there to protect them and the embassy staff, especially the royal family. Get there! On the double! Use your own discretion where necessary. Any questions?”
“Yes, sir. Then what do we do?”
“Berkma’s working out some sort of evacuation plan. You’ll have to find out what it is when you get there. Anything else?”
“No, sir.”
“Good. Telyekev out.”
York’s implants went dead. He l
ooked at Palevi, then at the small gun the sergeant held cupped in one hand. “Where’d you get that?”
Palevi grinned. “I don’t go anywhere without something, Cap’em.”
York nodded and started pulling on his clothes. “See if you can find me one. And did you hear the old man?”
“Yes, sir.”
“How far to the embassy?”
“A good forty kilometers, sir.”
“Ground transportation?”
“We ain’t gonna get far on the ground, sir. Streets are jammed. It’s a riot out there.”
York froze with one leg in his pants. “A riot? Feddies?”
“Don’t think so, sir. Just lots of civilians with lots of panic. Guess they figure when the warheads start falling they’d best be someplace else.”
York continued pulling on his clothes. “Then how far to the navy yard?”
Clearly Palevi had already thought of that. “A little more than a klik, sir.”
“Shuttles? Gunboats?”
“No gunboats, sir, but they’ve got two large shuttles and a small courier. Shuttles can each hold about a hundred of us packed tight. The courier—maybe ten.”
“What’s our count?”
Palevi grinned. “We got two hundred and forty-two actives, sir.”
York sat on the bed, started pulling on his boots and asked, “We’ve got Yagell and her people?”
Palevi nodded. “Terk’s a good marine, sir.”
York got his boots on, stood too quickly and the room tilted crazily. Palevi reached out to steady him, then pushed a couple of pills into his hand. “These’ll help, sir.”
York looked at the pills and frowned a question at Palevi. The sergeant answered, “Nerve jackers.”
York tossed the pills into his mouth, looked around quickly for something to wash them down with, found a half empty glass of trate near the bed. He took a gulp, fought to keep it down and barely succeeded.
“Staff meeting,” he told Palevi, trying to breathe around the trate fumes. “All NCOs—” He tried to recall those he’d seen in the saloon. “—Notay, Yagell, Hyer, Tathit, Elkiss, Cleaver, and that second looie from Irriahm. The red head; what’s her name?”
“Simorka, sir.”
