Кристофер Банч: The Court of a Thousand Suns

Clottin' idiot. Neckbreakers like him shouldn't ever get married. Anyway, he's now learning how to make like a big bird, too.

"Also he ain't a sergeant major anymore. I kicked him up to warrant officer. If he's gonna be in the clottin' navy, at least he won't have to put up with their silly class system."

The Emperor picked up and fingered his cup. "Captain, you might want to return to some kind of position of attention."

Sten was standing, locked and rigid in an instant.

"The other thing"—and the Emperor reached into his desk yet again and took out a small blue box—"is you're now a commander. Here's your insignia." He shoved the box across to Sten. "Now, pick up that cup."

Sten obeyed.

"I'm gonna call the toast—it's to you, Commander. Because no way I'll ever see you again."

The Emperor stood. "To your health, Commander Sten!"

To Sten, the Stregg tasted very odd indeed.

Haines was running all this input—less the Emperor's certainty of imminent war, which Sten had not mentioned—as Sten finished his beer, went back into the boat, and got another.

"Another thing I picked up," he went on after he sat. "You're going to get some kind of promotion, too."

But Haines was considering something else. "So you're going to go off and become a junior birdman. When?"

"That's the rest of the good news," Sten said. "It seems, uh, I've come into some money." Ida's illicitly acquired and invested funds had finally caught up with him, and Sten was sitting on more credits than he believed existed.

"Also me and you're on long leave before we report to our new duty stations."

Haines smiled, took a sip of her drink, and then winked. "Hey sailor. You want to fool around?"

Sten started laughing and knelt beside her. She pulled him down, and he felt her breasts and her lips, and then there was nothing but the blinding warmth of the sun itself.