John Ringo: The Hero

Dagger was putting away fine tools from his cleaning and maintenance kit. He was forever tinkering with his rifle, and carried extra tools to that end. It was probably unauthorized for him to do depot level adjustments, but he shot well enough that no one would dare complain. He laid down a probe and shrugged very slightly.

“I put him where I put everyone else. If he does his job, I don’t have a problem. If Shiva says he maxed the course, I’ll assume he can keep up, keep quiet and back us up.” Closing the receiver on his gauss rifle, he cycled the mechanism, pressed the stud, and listened to the snap of the ignition circuit. “If he screws up, it’ll make more work for me. Then we have a problem.”

Gun Doll, Gorilla and Shiva stared momentarily at each other, not at Dagger. Dagger wasn’t paying attention to them. At least not outwardly. It was probably part of his act. He loved to play the cold killer. It was annoying, but it was how Dagger was.

“Dammit, why did it have to be a Darhel? Why not a human sensat?” Thor groused.

“Because we don’t have enough,” Shiva replied. Human sensats were not only rare, but were needed to produce GalTech materials, because the only way anyone had figured out to produce most of the gear at that level was the way the Indowy did it — by “praying.” Actually, it was a complex ritual of meditation and thought, but it was very intensive and those doing it were not generally available nor disposed to lugging huge rucks through dangerous wilderness. The Michia Mentat, the largest school of the sensory arts, kept pretty much to themselves, and had since the Islendian Republic had split from the Solarian Systems Alliance some hundreds of years before. They’d served more in a diplomatic role between the Fringe and the SSA, and part of the treaty had been written to keep them out of military matters. They’d sat out the rebellion, their focus being within, but everyone knew how badly Earth and its allies would have fared had they been involved. “Don’t see you going to sensat testing, Thor.”

“Could be worse. It could be an Indowy sensat who we’d literally have to carry,” Gun Doll said.

“We’ll manage,” Dagger said and snapped his firing circuit again after his last round of adjustments. It couldn’t be coincidence this time. Everyone stared at him.

“Right,” Shiva said, breaking the tableau. “If you plan on drinking, getting laid or anything else tonight, get your crap squared away now. If you don’t make excuses, I won’t have to make explanations, and we’ll all be happier. We’re departing straight after a two-day run through. So live it up now.”

It was well after 1700 hours when the prep work was done. Shiva was still doing administrative stuff, which never ended — the troops had to be certified as to range time, medical appointments and the other minutiae of military life. Bell Toll was scrounging data, trying to wheedle a few facts that could give his people the edge in this op, as well as drafting the orders and acknowledging briefings. This op was going to play hell with their training schedule for the Readiness Standards Evaluation, which since this wasn’t, yet, a “declared war,” had to be met. That was the military; stick you out on the raw end one day and put you through chickenshit the next.

Thor appointed himself patrol leader of the bar crawl, and proceeded to prod the others. He first cornered Dagger in his room, who replied, “Thanks, but if I’m going to be shooting, I’d like to be as sober as possible.” His expression wasn’t exactly condescending, but Dagger was very much the psychotic loner. He almost turned into a cloistered monk before a mission, and wasn’t much of a partier afterwards. He’d been known to have three beers, once or twice. He’d even had an expensive shot of Earth whisky once. He wasn’t cheap, he was just a purist.

Tirdal was next, and looked somewhat confused. Behind him the lights were dim. His desk had been cleared and set with a small candlelike object, a book and some other items Thor couldn’t identify from the door. They were some kind of religious or personal gear, and Thor didn’t pry. It wasn’t politeness; he was embarrassed. To his inquiry about joining the entourage, Tirdal replied, “You wish for us to appear in public as a group, then attempt to find private entertainment, then return to little sleep?”

“That’s sort of it,” Thor agreed. “It’s supposed to be fun and help take the edge off.”

Tirdal appeared to consider it for a moment, then replied.

“My presence would create a disturbance among others that would not be helpful to you, I think. There will be nothing for me to do privately, and if left alone in public, there could be issues. As to ‘taking the edge off,’ I will meditate most certainly, and review recent events. I also need to study more of both human interaction and technical matters. So I think not. But I do thank you for the invitation. Perhaps when this is over the timing would be more appropriate.”

“Well,” Thor said, “if you want to observe human interaction, this would be the time.”

“I’m aware of that, and the idea is intriguing,” Tirdal replied. “But other considerations take priority. I hope, however, that everyone has a good time on your ‘bar crawl.’ ”

“Thanks, then,” Thor said a bit awkwardly. “I hope your meditation goes well.” It seemed the polite thing to say.

He knocked on Ferret’s door and found the specialist leaning back in his bunk with his fingers interlaced behind his head.

“Bar crawl time,” Thor said.

“I’m on it,” Ferret said, rolling to his feet and slipping his feet into ship-boots.

“Glad to hear it,” Thor said, with feeling. There was nothing lonelier than a single-handed bar crawl. “The sarge can’t make it, we don’t want the captain along, Dagger’s being himself and Tirdal doesn’t seem to understand the concept.”

“Just as well,” Ferret had told him. “Either of them would scare chicks away, and we don’t need a fight tonight, either.”

Thus it was that Gorilla, Ferret, Thor and Gun Doll went looking for distraction before their appointment to spend two months in space and muck. They met right outside the base gate, where everything a homesick young troop could yearn for was available.

There was the branch of “Feelings, Inc,” a company which had staked out space near every base on three planets, to sell cheap trinkets to soldiers as “fine jewelry” for their loved ones back home, wherever home might be. The prices were not cheap.

A vid arcade clattered and dinged, lights flashing through the door. Every machine in the place was cranked to maximum difficulty. Entertainment equipment could be rented at stiff fees, the purveyors sure of their income because troops’ ID numbers could be called in to the base if funds were tardy, to be forcibly secured from said troops while their commanders wrote them up for failing to be responsible and for disgracing the service. Only the former mattered to the business in question.

An old electronics storefront had been converted, the sign out front proclaiming “Bambi’s Lingerie.” It had once added “private showings available” until some wiseass had changed the marquee lettering to read “Ass and head,” which had likely been true, Bambi’s having been shut down weeks before by the local mayor and police, concerned about the morals of their town. That emphasis on old Solarian “morals” was quaint and hickish on a planet like Islendia.

However, that concern for morals didn’t extend to the rest of the strip of small establishments determined to find some way, any way, to liberate all the cash soldiers and spacers might have. Everyone loved the military, as long as the military had cash to burn. After that, they were free to piss off, or go back on base and quit whining, or spend a complimentary night in the town lockup. The screwing of soldiers wasn’t a moral concern, as long as that screwing involved their time and money but not sex. Unless, of course, that sex followed a spending spree in the “Short Time Saloon,” the area’s only real bar.