by Chris Bunch
“ ‘Kay,” he growled. “First, I’ll listen to you tell me why I can’t go on this wildhair trip of yours, then I’ll tell you why I’m going.”
“Save it, Ben,” Garvin advised. “You’re already on the roster.”
Dill blinked. “Howcum I don’t have to threaten you, like usual?”
“I need a good pilot,” Garvin said, “but I’ll take you. We’re bringing along three aksai, plus a hangar queen for spare parts, and I understand you know which end of those evil-flying bastards goes first.”
“I am only the best aksai pilot in the cosmos, including any Musth that might think, just ‘cause he invented those evil pigs, he’s better than me.”
“Which is why I put you down, right after Alikhan and Boursier.”
“Alikhan, ‘kay,” Dill said. “But Boursier? I can fly circles around her butt without power.”
“I just wanted to wait to see how long it took you to show up,” Garvin said, suppressing a grin. “You want to know your other slot?
“We’ll need a strongman.”
“You mean, like in the holos, stripped to the waist, all oiled up, with big ol’ iron rings on my arms to show off my perfect physique?”
“Plus a corset to hold in your gut.”
“Damn,” Dill said, oblivious. “I get to show off.”
“Within reason.”
“Hey,” the big man said, “I got a great idea. Since you’re taking Alikhan already, and nobody needs to know he speaks Common Speech, you could use him — ”
“As an exhibit,” Garvin interrupted. “Meet Man’s Deadliest Foe … See Him in an Orgy of Decayed Flesh … a Cannibal Fiend from a Nightmare Beyond the Stars. And anybody who comes close to his cage will talk freely, not knowing he’s got big ears on ‘em.”
“Aw shit,” Dill said. “You went and beat me to it.”
“Always,” Garvin said.
Dill chortled. “It’ll be worth the price of admission just seeing him in a cage.”
“Only when the gilly-galloos are around.”
“ ‘At’ll be enough. I’ll bring … what’re they … nutpeas to throw at him.”
• • •
“I suppose,” Njangu said, “all this is in the noble tradition of I&R volunteering for everything.” His hand swept out, indicated the company formation in front of him. “Is there anybody missing?”
“Nossir,” Cent Monique Lir said briskly. “Other than one man in hospital who won’t be discharged before takeoff time.”
“ ‘Kay,” Njangu said, then raised his voice. “I’m proud of all you sneaky mud-eaters for courage and general stupidity.
“Now, my flyer mentioned specific talents. Anybody who’s got one of them, stay in formation. The rest of you, who’re just looking for some cheap adventure like I am, fall out and go back to your barracks.”
He waited, and, grudgingly, people began slinking away, until only about sixty of the 130-plus unit remained.
“ ‘Kay,” Njangu said. “Now, we’ll start screening.”
He eyed the men and women.
“Striker Fleam … what are you planning to add to things? Besides your general surly attitude, I mean.”
The hard-faced Striker, who always refused promotion but was one of the best field soldiers in I&R, which meant the entire Force, grinned thinly.
“Knots, sir.”
“Beg pardon.”
“I can tie any knot known. One-handed, off-handed, upside down, in my sleep, on a drunk.”
“A knot-tier,” Njangu said, beginning to enjoy this, “wasn’t on the list.”
“Nossir,” Fleam agreed. “But I checked around, and went and looked up circuses, and all of them talk about ropes and lines and pulleys and shit like that.”
“ ‘Kay,” Njangu said. “You’re aboard. What about you, Cent Lir?”
“I’ve been a dancer with an opera company.”
“ ‘Kay. We’ll need somebody to ramrod the dance troupe. What about you, Alt Montagna?”
“Swimming, sir. High diving too. And I thought I could learn trapeze, since I’m not a bad climber.”
“Have either of you thought about what’s going to happen to I&R with both the Company Commander and Exec away?”
“Already taken care of, sir,” Lir said briskly. “We’ll vet Lav Huran up to take over as CO, give him a temp commission that’ll go to permanent if we don’t come back, Abana Calafo as XO, also with a temporary rank. Already approved by Caud Jaansma.”
“Mmmh.” Njangu turned serious. Of course the incredibly competent Lir would be welcome, although he hadn’t heard of her opera experience.
Darod Montagna was another story. Garvin, in spite of his ongoing affair with Jasith Mellusin, had more than a casual interest in the young black-haired sniper/officer. Njangu had caught them kissing when both were drunk during the war with Larix/Kura, but didn’t think much further had happened.
It would’ve been trouble if it had, except Montagna had gotten herself commissioned during the war, so the traditional ban on enlisted/officer relationships wasn’t there.
But still … Njangu remembered two things. First, that Jasith was going on the expedition and, second and more important, he wasn’t Garvin’s keeper.
“ ‘Kay,” he grudged. “Now, let’s sort the rest of you fools out.”
• • •
“Send him in,” Garvin said. He leaned back in his chair. It had been a very long week, vetting volunteers, listening to the lies of commanders trying to fob off the lame and lazy on him, and to the screeches of other COs who were losing their best. And now this.
Dr. Danfin Froude was one of Cumbre’s most respected mathematicians, though his talents led into most areas of applied science. In addition, in spite of his over-sixty years, the rumpled small man was a daredevil and had accompanied the Force on several hazardous missions, getting a reputation for complete fearlessness. During the Larix/Kura war, he’d fallen in love hard with one of the Forcewomen, not uncommon when romance comes late in life. She’d been killed, and Froude’s world seemed to have ended. He was still there for the Force for any desired analysis, but he was a bit distant, as if a part of him had died with Ho Kang.
The door came open, and Garvin jumped. The man standing in front of him wore exaggerated stage makeup, the saddest man in the world, with a peculiarly obnoxious long nose. His pants sagged, his shoes were holed, and ridiculously oversize, his vest tattered as much as his archaic hat.
“Hello, Garvin,” Froude said. “You’re looking very well.” He snuffled. “I’m not.” He began taking a large handkerchief from a sleeve, and more and more material came out, until he was holding something the size of a bedsheet. There was a flutter in its midst, and a stobor, one of the two-legged snakes peculiar to D-Cumbre slithered out, landed on Garvin’s desk, hissed, and fled into the outer office.
“Oh, sorry, Garvin,” Froude said, still in the same monotone. A tear dripped from one eye, and he wiped it away. When the handkerchief was gone, his long nose had changed into a red rubber ball. He scratched it, took it off, bounced it against a wall, shrugged.
“I don’t guess you’re going to let me come with you, are you?”
“You learned all this in two days?”
Froude nodded, and his pants fell down.
“You know there’s no way I’d refuse a Willie the Weeper,” Garvin said.
Froude snuffled, picked up his pants.
“You’re not just saying that to try to make me smile, now are you?”
He lifted his hat, and some species of flying object scrawked and flapped away.
“You’re aboard, you’re aboard,” Garvin said, starting to laugh. “Now get the hell out before you produce some carnivore out of your pants.”
“Thank you, sir, thank you, thank you,” Froude said, still in the monotone, bowing and scraping. “But I have one more boon, a small favor, just a little service, since Ann Heiser is off getting married to Jon Hedley, and wants to stay home for a whi
le, which means I won’t have anyone to bounce my ideas off of.”
Garvin noticed the way Froude’s face twisted when he said “married,” but said nothing.
Froude went to the door, opened it.
Garvin looked suspiciously at the completely undistinguished man who hunched into his office. He was short, a bit over a meter and a half tall, wearing battered clothes that the poorest of poor clerks might disdain.
“This is my colleague, Jabish Ristori,” Froude said.
Ristori extended a hand. Garvin reached to take it, and Ristori did a backflip, landing on his feet. He held out his hand again, and as Garvin stepped forward, the man cartwheeled against the wall, then, somehow, up onto Garvin’s desk, and against the other wall, once more came down with a graceful bounce, and solemnly shook Garvin’s hand.
“Pleased to meetcha, meetcha, meetcha,” and Ristori turned another flip to show his pleasure.
“Professor Jabish Ristori,” Froude said. “Nice enough guy, a colleague of mine for years, even if he does belong to one of those fields that can hardly be called a discipline.”
“Socisocisocisociology,” Ristori said, doing a handstand, then lifting one hand off the ground.
“Jabish became curious ten years ago about wandering entertainers, and determined to learn their tricks,” Froude went on.
“And I never, ever, ever went back to the univee,” Ristori said with an infectious giggle. “Dull, dry, dry, dull.”
He pushed off from the ground and landed on his feet.
“Welcome to the circus,” Garvin said. “We can always use a tumbler.”
“A tumbler, bumbler, stumbler,” Ristori said. “Here. I believe this is yours.”
He gave Garvin back the identity card that, until a few seconds ago, had been clipped to Jaansma’s shirt pocket.
“How’d you … oh. Sorry,” Garvin said. “I should know, never wise up the mark.”
“And this is yours,” Ristori said, giving Garvin back his watch ring. “And this.” It was Garvin’s wallet, which had been most secure in his buttoned rear pocket.
“But you never got within a meter of me!” Garvin blurted.
“I didn’t, did I?” Ristori said, in a deep voice full of ominous significance. “If I had, I might have all your credits, which you’ll find in your left front pocket.”
“You two,” Garvin said, knowing without checking, the money would somehow be there. ‘Out. Report to Njangu and draw your gear.”
“And try to leave him with his pants.”
• • •
The tall man in greasy coveralls slid out from underneath a Zhukov Aerial Combat Vehicle. He held an unpowered torque wrench about as long as his arm.
Njangu saluted him smartly as he got to his feet.
Mil Taf Liskeard returned the salute, after noting the wings on Yoshitaro’s chest.
“Didn’t think you flyboys would even recognize my existence these days,” he said bitterly.
Njangu didn’t respond to that, but said, “Sir, I’d like to speak to you privately.”
Liskeard looked across at the two mechanics, who were visibly not paying the slightest attention.
“In that grease trap that passes for my office, then.”
Njangu followed him inside, closed the door.
“All right. What do you want, Yoshitaro? Aren’t you too busy putting together your latest scheme to be wasting time on a grounded old fart who broke under fire?”
“I want you, sir, as one of the pilots on that scheme.”
“Bad joke,” Liskeard said shortly. “I say again my last. I broke, remember? I had Angara ground me. Or hadn’t you heard? I couldn’t take killing people.”
“I know,” Yoshitaro said. “But I still want you. To fly that Big Ugly Flopper we’re going out in. I looked your record up, sir. You had more than two thousand hours in converted civilian transports before you transferred to Griersons. And we’re very, very short on people who’ve got experience moving hogs of steel about.”
“I did do that for a while,” Liskeard said. “I should have known my limits and kept pushing those BUFs around the sky.
“But that’s not the point. I couldn’t take it, busting other transports apart like the ones I flew, like gutting fish, and turned my wings in. Angara said he’d make sure I never flew anything military again, and would have my ass out of the Force as soon as he got around to it.
“I guess he forgot about me down here in this motor pool,” Liskeard went on. “And I’ll be damned if I know why I didn’t remind him.”
He rubbed his forehead, leaving a greasy smear.
“No, Yoshitaro. You’ve got something else in mind than rehabilitating a coward. Am I supposed to be the Judas Goat on this new operation? I hear you’re famous for nasty little tricks like that.”
“I want you,” and Njangu paused, trying to hold back his temper, trying to hold to his purpose. But the words didn’t come easy, “for personal reasons. A month or so after you … grounded yourself, I got in the center of somebody’s sights and they dropped a barrage on me. And I broke, too.”
“But you came back. Obviously, or you’d be under that Zhukov with me, looking for grease points.”
“Yeh,” Njangu said. “I did. Maybe because I was too cowardly to tell somebody who saw me go down that I was shattered, that I couldn’t keep on keeping on.”
Liskeard’s manner changed. He eyed Njangu.
“So this is a kind of rehabilitation. You’re willing to take a chance on me again?”
“We’re not going out in Big Bertha to shoot at people,” Njangu said. “We’re going out to have a look around and get our asses back here to report.”
“That doesn’t mean I’ll be able to hold together if things get sticky.”
“Then I’ll yank your ass off the controls and break it myself for real. Sir.” Njangu growled, his fingers unconsciously curling into a strike hand.
Liskeard saw his hands, then started laughing, very hard.
“Does Angara know you’re trying to recruit me?”
“He does,” Njangu said. “And he growled something about I better be sure I’m right.”
Liskeard looked surprised. “That’s the last thing I’d expect that hard-ass old bastard to say.”
He took a deep breath.
“Yoshitaro, I’ll put the wings back on for you. And if I snap again … you won’t have to take care of me. I’ll do it myself.
“And … thanks. I owe you. Very, very large.”
Njangu, never happy with sentiment, came to attention, saluted, and turned. Over his shoulder he said:
“Then get over to Big Bertha — she comes out of the yards in two hours — and start learning what a pig she is to fly. Sir.”
• • •
“You’re sure that dance is authentic?” Garvin asked doubtfully.
Dec Running Bear, resplendent in breechclout, a rawhide necklace of long teeth, face paint, and a feather sticking sideways out of his braided hair, grinned.
“Just as my mother’s mother’s mother taught me. Or, if the people I’m dancing for start lookin’ like they think I’m shitting them, my father’s father’s father’s father. Hell, I’ll tell ‘em next performance I’m gonna put bone spikes through my tits, hang in the air, and yodel for the ancient Sun Dance.”
“I dunno,” Garvin said, still skeptical.
“Look, sir. I could really use some action. I’m bored cross-cocked doing nothing but fly Dant Angara around. Great Spirit on a bicycle, I actually found myself wanting a little shooting last week.”
Running Bear absently rubbed a scarred arm. He was one of the few living holders of the Confederation Cross, gained in what he called “one ee-holay mad moment.”
“So I dance some, tell some stories … those are for real from back when, maybe even back to Earth … my gran taught me … smoke a peace pipe, sing some chants, look like a dangerous warrior.
“Isn’t that a good way to meet women? Sir?”
>
“Doesn’t sound that bad,” Garvin said. “Plus we can always use another certified crazy besides Ben Dill. And you can fly.”
“Anything short of a Zhukov, right through the eye of a goddamned needle, sir.”
“Well, we’re pissing off Dant Angara bad enough already, taking his best. Might as well grab his chauffeur as well,” Garvin decided.
• • •
“Might be fun,” Erik Penwyth drawled. “Wandering out there, a day in front of you folks, seeing who and what can be taken advantage of.”
“Just don’t get cute on me,” Njangu promised. “Remember, you’re in the job I wanted.”
“Would you stop whining?” Garvin said. “Clown master you are, and clown master you remain. Pass the goddamned bottle, would you?”
Njangu pushed it across, just as a tap came on the door.
“Enter,” he said.
The door opened, and a woman wearing hospital whites came in.
“Well, I’ll be goto,” Garvin said. “Alt Mahim. Sid-down, Doc. I thought we’d detached you to medical school.”
She sat, on the edge of one of Garvin’s chairs.
“I am … was, sir. Until three days ago, when the term finished. I took a long leave.”
“Uh-oh,” Njangu said meaningfully. “The sy-reen call of excitement.”
“Come on, Jill,” Garvin said. “First, knock off the ‘sir.’ Or have you forgotten I&R tradition, such as it is?”
“Noss … no, boss. I came to see if you need a good medico aboard.”
“Damme,” Penwyth said. “What is it about the old I&R crew? You try to put them in place where they just might not get killed, learn how to do valuable things like deliver babies and do brain surgery that’ll give them a slot on the outside, and they come roarin’ back to the cannon’s mouth, every time.”
“I won’t even try to argue with you,” Garvin said. “Hell yes, we need a good combat medic. Here. Pour yourself a drink.”
“Not right now, boss,” Mahim said, getting to her feet. “I’ve got to go steal what medpak supplies I’ll need. But thanks.”
She saluted, was gone.
Penwyth shook his head.
