22
“I can’t believe that we’re getting to Barclay after all,” Corporal Akkeke said as he wiped down his D5, the Millsap combat suit.
Rev had thought it was a lost cause as well. The deployment had been initially moved up once the Council had decided that the Landing Day celebration should be put on the schedule, and because of the change, the Takagahara had left the home system with very little wiggle room. The transit to the Nightingale’s Song, the rescue, and then the wait for the Freedom Confederation ship had taken almost two days, enough so that everyone on board had thought the trip had been scratched.
But when the Barclay Parliament had heard the reason why the ship wouldn’t make it for the official celebration, they decided to delay the parade, reception, and fireworks for a day so that the Home Guard could take part in them.
“Just make sure that D5 of yours is shining to beat the band,” Rev said. “We want them to be glad they waited for us.”
The original plan had been for the sailors from the ship and the troopers from Fox Company to march in the parade in their dress uniforms. The first sergeant, at the urging of the SNCOs, asked the major if the company could march in their combat suits to thank the Barclay government for delaying the celebration. Combat suits would be far more impressive to the locals. The company commander heartily agreed, and she had taken it to Lieutenant Colonel Dupris, the commander of troops. After consultation with the ship’s CO and the civilian Council rep, permission was granted. The sailors, who were all Mezame, would lead the contingent in the parade, all in their dress uniforms. Fox Company and all the attachments would follow in their combat suits.
But combat suits were not dress uniforms. They were not meant to be easily seen. So, the first sergeant had passed down that each combat suit be “prettied up” as much as possible. For once, troopers didn’t mind being told to do something for appearances’ sake. Aside from the fact that they were happy not to have missed the celebration, the rumors were that Barclay was very, very pro-military and that the local population could end up being very, very “friendly” to visiting soldiers.
Like secondary school students going to a school dance, the single troopers, in particular, wanted to look good and possibly catch the welcoming eye of a local. Rev didn’t know if he was single or not, but he still wanted to shine. A Union Marine always had to look—and be—the best.
Looking around the hangar deck where most of the company was working on their combat suits, Rev couldn’t help but compare them with his. The PAL-5 was more minimalistic in appearance than most of the rest, including Corporal Incrit’s PAL-3, the normal Union Marine infantry combat suit—Incrit was one of two regular Union Marines in the company. The Paxus militia’s Tanter was even less bulky than Rev’s PAL-5, but the rest, as far as he could see, were larger and more robust.
And many had a cool factor that the PAL family of suits lacked. Take Akkeke’s D5. With a pointed helmet, it looked like a raptor on the hunt for prey. Punch had given Rev the specs on the suit, and those were impressive as well. It had far better protective numbers than his PAL-5, even better than a Marine PAL-3.
But what kept drawing Rev’s attention was that at the moment, it was a bright red. He was sure the red was totally for show. There was no way the Millsap soldiers fought like 18th Century British redcoats. But if a combat suit could camouflage itself, why not be able to show a splash of color when it was appropriate?
Rev didn’t want to admit it, but he was a little jealous. With the stealthy lines and red color, Akkeke was going to look like Satan himself as they marched in the parade. The blue Home Guard pauldron took a little away from that, but not much.
“Let’s start wrapping it up,” Top Barber called out. “The chief wants to get the first cargo shuttle loaded before we arrive in orbit.”
Rev stepped back and gave his combat suit a once over. It probably hadn’t looked this good since it came off the production line. He backed it into the transport crate again and closed the crate up. He wouldn’t see the suit again until they hit the staging area for the parade.
One of the cargo handlers came up and asked, “Can I take it?”
“Have at it.”
The Mezame sailors didn’t wear shirts with colors that designated what they did on the ship like Union sailors did. Rev was having a hard time getting used to it, but the crew seemed to coordinate well without them. He wondered how much the Union Navy’s colored shirts were practical and how much was just a nod to tradition.
With the Home Guard’s lack of permanent squad structure, Rev wasn’t technically in charge of anyone else. But he was still a staff sergeant, and he took a moment to inspect the sergeants and below. They may be from different nations, but their appearance would reflect on the Home Guard as a whole. He didn’t have any corrections or comments to make, but that wasn’t always necessary. Sometimes, merely the fact that he’d shown interest was enough. Top Thapa back in the Raiders had told him that it was half “I appreciate and am interested in what you’re doing” and half “I’m watching you, so don’t screw up.”
Rev rotated his right shoulder as he watched his crate get picked up and moved. It still twinged, but given that he’d been shot just days before, he could take it.
Ting-a-ling’s suit was picked up by one of the crew. “What now?” Rev asked him. “We’ve got four hours before we reach Barclay.”
“What now? We’ve just spent an hour polishing up a piece of combat gear so we can impress the locals. But one thing’s for sure. No way in hell am I going to let my combat suit show me up. I’m getting back to the head, shower up, maybe go all out and clip my nose hairs. I will be looking good, my yootie friend. You coming?”
Rev hadn’t considered how he looked. He didn’t have the same goals for the three days on the planet as most of the crew and embarked troopers. But still . . .
He raised his arm, took a sniff of his pit, and wrinkled his nose in disgust.
Yeah, I guess I could use a shower, too.
“Wait up, fry!” he called as he hurried after his roommate.
* * *
“We’re meeting at The Angry Pelican when all this is over,” Rice told Rev and Ting-a-ling as they were donning their combat suits. “Sergeant Crocker confirmed it’s the place to be.”
“Uh, I asked Punch about it. It’s really not a military bar. More of a tourist place,” Rev said.
“Oh, my poor, naive little persie. You think the militia here’s gonna be buying us drinks? Hell, no. We want civilians. Tourist civilians who came to the capital for the celebration.”
Rev started to argue when her words sunk in. After a moment’s reflection, he had to agree with her reasoning. He bent at the waist and dramatically genuflected before her. “I must bow to your greater knowledge, oh queen of bumming drinks.”
“About time you acknowledged that.”
“Hey, Unifora, how about you quit jaw-jacking and get ready?” SFC Lev Arsenyev, the Second Squad leader, shouted out.
“My master calls,” Rice said. “I just wanted to make sure you two knew where we’ll be.” She hurried back to her squad to don her combat suit.
Rev closed the last seal, then took off his social arm. The decision had been made for the three IBHU Marines to go fully armed. More for the locals to gawk at. Now he had to wait for Filmore to hook up the other two and get to him.
He took a moment to look around the gym. It had been turned over to the Guard as an assembly area for the parade. The sailors, fully two-thirds of the ship’s complement, were ready, of course. They rode down from the ship already in their black and grey dress uniforms.
The troopers had come down in their long johns, or whatever the other services called the unis that were worn under the combat suits. Each trooper also carried a duffle with their home service uniform. After the parade, they’d change into those for the official ceremony at the Civic Auditorium. And after that was over, it would be party time.
“You ready, sir?”
Rev turned back to see Filmore with Pashu dangling from a medium suspension hoist he’d gotten from the Navy. “Let’s do it.”
He had to stand for the attachment, and instead of just letting Filmore guide it in, as usual, he had to help by maneuvering his shoulder into place. He glanced up to see Ting-a-ling watching closely. In fact, the entire squad was watching. Ting-a-ling had seen Pashu before, but Rev just then realized that he’d never seen how the IBHU was attached. That was something that all the other nations would like to understand.
He didn’t want to think that his friend was doing the spy thing now. That bothered him.
Leave it alone, Reverent. That’s what he is supposed to do. Everyone is supposed to do. Doesn’t mean he’s not the same Ting.
He turned to Filmore. “Where’re you going to watch the parade?”
“I’m not, sir,” Filmore said as he made the connections. “I’ll just stay here.”
“No party tonight?”
“I’ll be watching the IBHUs until I can escort them back to the ship. Maybe after that, sir.”
Rev tilted his head, eyebrows raised as he looked at the young tech. There was dedication, and then there was dedication. Who knew when the weapons, combat suits, and the three IBHUs would be shuttled back up to the ship? And it wasn’t as if the gear was just going to be lying around. A rotating team of sailors and troopers would be on duty while the local government was providing a police security force.
“Filmore, I know you want to show how gung ho you are, but you do know this gym will be secured, right?”
“I know, sir. But I’ll feel better if I have eyes on the IBHUs.”
Rev just shook his head. The tech was an adult and fully capable of making his own decisions.
“Home Guard, you have fifteen minutes before moving to your parade position,” came over a loudspeaker.”
“You heard her. Fifteen minutes,” the platoon commander shouted out. “Keep getting ready, but I want everyone to listen up.”
Everyone turned to the lieutenant.
“Now, I know we’re not the fucking Praetorian Guard. We don’t drill. We’re not paid to look pretty. Some of you have probably never drilled before, even back home. But we’re representing the Council here, and appearances matter. So, try and look like you know your left foot from your right, OK?”
No one laughed, and he went on. “I’m going to be giving a cadence over the platoon net, so try and keep in step. If you screw up, just get your mind straight and fix it. Other than that, enjoy yourself. This is a once-in-a-lifetime experience for almost all of you. If someone waves at you, you can wave back. Just don’t leave the formation until we’re all done.”
“That doesn’t mean when we reach the end of the parade. Wait until the lieutenant dismisses you. And from there, it’s back here to get into your uniforms,” Top Barber shouted.
“So, with that, get back to your prep,” the lieutenant said.
“You’re all green,” Filmore whispered as if afraid he was interrupting.
“Thanks.” Then to Punch, “Run a check.”
They weren’t going into battle, and Filmore had just told him that Pashu was green, but he had Punch run a check every time he donned his IBHU. It was a good habit to have.
<All systems green. Power at 99.1%. Combat load zero.>
The combat load made him shudder. He had power for his braided cannon, but he didn’t need to be carrying his 20mm rounds, nor did he need missiles for a parade on a safe planet. But just the thought of going out without them made him feel naked.
He rotated Pashu at the shoulder, making sure she was seated properly inside the sleeve. Everything felt right.
“Excuse me.”
Rev looked around to see four sailors standing behind him.
“Yes?”
“Um . . . can we get a pic with you?” a petty officer said.
What?
He looked around. Over where Second Platoon was prepping, he could see Randigold holding court with a few sailors. She was going through various motions while the sailors—and a few troopers—watched. She suddenly lunged at the sailors, who jumped back with momentary fear before they started laughing.
It didn’t . . . seem right, was the best way to put it. But there were no Union rules against simple holos, and he’d already been told to stand by in case the locals wanted to take some.
“Sure, I guess. With the group of you?”
The petty officer said, “Each one individually, if you don’t mind, Staff Sergeant.”
“OK. Well, who’s first?”
“Didn’t know you were a rock star,” Ting-a-ling said as he stepped out of the line of fire.
Rev went through the process as all four had a holo taken with him. Then three more came up. Rev felt decidedly weird. These were fellow military personnel, not civilian tourists. But they seemed happy to have the holos.
Rev looked up once to see Kvat scowling at the little show. But in his combat suit, there was nothing visibly different about him than any other MDS soldier other than being a little bulkier, and bulkier did not make a better holo. Still, Rev felt a little blast of satisfaction that it was him, not Kvat, that the sailors approached.
The sailors might have kept coming if the announcement hadn’t told them it was time to leave the gym and get into formation.
It was time to parade.
* * *
Well, it wasn’t quite time to parade. It wasn’t even time to get ready to parade. It was time to get ready to get ready to parade. The Takagahara’s crew and Fox company formed up in loose formations inside the gym and waited for another fifteen minutes before being told to move outside and onto the staging area. Once at the start, it was another forty-five minutes of getting in formation, then standing around waiting for the command to move out.
The company was marching nine abreast, and Rev took his customary position on the left side of the formation, leaving Pashu free from banging into someone. Both Randigold and Sign of Respect had their IBHUs on their right shoulders, so they took positions on the right side of the formation.
At least this way, as the first sergeant pointed out, all of the spectators would get a good look at them. For Rev, having gone through so much secrecy and hiding the project, this was a sea change.
And he rather liked it.
Finally, the parade started. First up was a color guard, three militiamen carrying the colors of the Congress of Humanity, the Synergy Alliance, and the planet flags. They were immediately followed by the Barclay militia’s Drum and Bagpipe Corps. Each piper and drummer was dressed in a kilt. Rev had never seen a kilt in real life and craned his neck trying to look past the Takagahara’s sailors before the parade actually kicked off. Hopefully, he’d get a better look after the parade, maybe snap a holo with some of them. Neesy would get a kick out of seeing them, he knew.
A stately, open-topped ground limo followed, carrying the prime minister and an old man who was the last living second-generation citizen of the planet.
The Home Guard colors followed behind those two. A trooper carried the Council colors, a sailor the Home Guard Naval Forces colors, and another trooper the Home Guard Ground Forces colors.
The naval forces were senior by date of formation and preceded Fox.
“This is it. Look sharp. Forward . . . MARCH!” Major Yves shouted before she turned around.
Immediately, “Left . . . left . . . left, right, left,” sounded in his helmet.
“Turn that down,” Rev ordered Punch. The cadence might help to keep troopers in step, but he didn’t want his thoughts to be drowned out.
They didn’t quite step off at the same time. It was more like an accordion. The front rank, which consisted of the three rifle platoon commanders, each in front of their platoon, started, along with the lead rank of the company’s main body. But the subsequent ranks started in fits and stops, and it took several hundred meters for it to even out. This was only the second time since Rev had joined the company that it had been in a single formation, much less marched as a unit. Adding all the attachments, this was the first time they’d been in a combined formation.
Considering that, Rev thought they were actually doing a decent job. And judging by the cheers from the crowd as the troopers came into their view, they thought Fox Company was doing just fine.
“Whoa! They love us!” Lines passed on the squad net. “Think I can score tonight with some lovely Barclay babe?”
“Keep off the net, Lines. Focus on marching,” SFC Gamay passed.
He’s right, though. Not about getting laid, but these folks really do love us, Rev thought. Sergeant Crocker had promised them that his people would welcome them like this, but Rev was surprised at how enthusiastic the crowd was. Most were waving the bright red flag with the small Union Jack in the corner, but there were still plenty of blue CoH flags in the mix as well.
They conducted a left turn onto the main drag. The movement wouldn’t threaten a real drum and bugle corps, but they got around without killing someone, and Rev took that as a win. And if anything, the crowds were even bigger and more enthusiastic. That might have been alcohol-fueled if the odor of hops wafting over the road was any indicator.
A little boy, no more than five or six years old, rushed out, and Rev had to stutter step to keep from crushing the little guy. The boy slapped Pashu as Lines almost crashed into Rev from behind.
“Hi!” he said, hands clasped together as he looked up at Rev, running along on little legs to keep up with him.
“Hi,” Rev said over his exterior speakers.
“What happened to your arm?”
“This is my arm. I call her Pashu.”
Rev raised her, his tentacle-like fingers extended, and the boy happily gave him a high five before turning and running back into the crowd.
“Keep it tight,” Gamay passed.
Rev didn’t know if that was directed at him or not, but he closed the gap between him and Gingham. It wasn’t as if he’d had any choice in disrupting the formation. He wasn’t going to risk stomping on a little kid just to keep the formation looking good.
And while he thought it was annoying at first, the constant “left, right, left” was helpful for getting back in step.
Something flew out from the crowd, something small and pink, and landed in the middle of the formation. Rev didn’t see what it was for sure, but for the life of him, it looked like it could have been a pair of panties.
“I’m sure as hell going to like this place,” Lines said, and that confirmed to Rev that was exactly what the pink object had been.
The road opened up further, and stands started lining the way. These people were out to celebrate, so everything excited them. Local police stood in front of the people every ten to fifteen meters, but they seemed to be just enjoying their front-row view of the parade.
“Get ready for the reviewing stand,” the major passed.
A higher set of stands, covered in the gold and blue Barclay colors, was up ahead on the right. With the prime minister choosing to ride the limo, the planetary president would be in the stands along with the CoH rep, some vice-counsel whose name and exact position Rev had already forgotten. The Takagahara’s CO, Lieutenant Colonel Dupris, and the civilian diplomatic rep would be in the stands with him, as well as all the planetary and visiting bigwigs.
When the company commander was ten paces from the stand, she ordered, “Present . . . HARMS!”
Most of the troopers brought their weapons to a position of present arms, held vertically in front of their chests. Rev was not armed with an individual weapon, and Pashu was not really designed to render honors, so he didn’t react to that command.
Her next command was, “Eyes, right.”
Everyone from the second column on snapped their heads forty-five degrees to the right.
Just as the last rank passed the vice-counsel, the company commander ordered the company to bring their eyes back to the front and shoulder their arms. This was their one active action. From here on out, it was just march and soak up the atmosphere.
After another couple of hundred meters, someone slapped Pashu as he marched. His initial instincts were to strike out, but he withheld and turned to see a florid-faced man, trying to match Rev’s step while not spilling any of the beer he was carrying in two cups. He didn’t really do a very good job, either in the marching or in keeping the beer inside his cup.
“Love having you bluehats here. Thought you might be thirsty,” the man said, holding out one cup to Rev before stumbling and going down to his knees. Rev glanced back as the man tried to sweep spilled beer back into the cup.
“Damn, Staff Sergeant. You didn’t take the beer,” Lines said. “Alcohol abuse.”
The parade officially ended at the main park. Ten troopers were to stay in the park, where, along with the armor and military equipment in the parade, they would take part in the static display. Thankfully, Rev wasn’t assigned to that. Sergeant Sign of Respect would be the IBHU Marine tasked with that duty.
The company commander relieved the officers and turned the company over to the first sergeant to march it back to the gym. They’d stage their combat suits there, change into their uniforms, and head over the auditorium for the official ceremony. Once that was done, it was three days of liberty, and Rev wasn’t going to waste a minute of that.
* * *
“Let’s get this over with,” Rice whispered. “My throat’s getting mighty parched.”
“Shh. We’re still on stage,” Rev said. “We’ve got another hour, tops. The beer will stay cold.”
“An hour of speeches. I’ll die of boredom before that.”
“Think of it as the price we pay for the rest of the evening and the next two off. Besides, they said there will be some performances.”
“Yeah, probably the local primary school doing a traditional dance of some kind. Oh, so much excitement I can hardly contain myself.”
When she put it like that, Rev started to dread what was coming. He really didn’t care about Barclay’s history. He was a New Hope citizen, and he doubted he had much in common with these people. Sitting around listening to the speakers wax on about their pioneering spirit was something to be endured—nothing more, nothing less. But, an hour, maybe two, really was a small price to pay for what looked like would be a primo liberty port.
The entire company was seated in one section of the auditorium, the ship’s crew beside them. They’d been told to intermix, but like oil and water, there was a clear line of demarcation. It wasn’t as if the troopers disliked the crew or vice-versa. It was just birds of a feather flocking together.
“What’s the seating capacity of this place?”
<The official capacity is 27,000.>
“Then why does it look like half the planet is in here?”
Punch could discern between true and rhetorical questions and remained silent.
Rev wondered if the 27,000 included the folding chairs that took up half of the main floor. For that matter, if these speeches were such a big deal, why not fill the main floor with chairs instead of leaving a huge empty space.
The place was packed, though, with hundreds, if not thousands, standing between the seating. And as the company arrived after changing, there had been additional thousands thronging in the park surrounding the auditorium, crowding in front of what looked to be at least a dozen huge holo stands.
A lot of people just to hear some politicians speak.
But even if it didn’t matter much for him, this was an important day for every planet. Rev’s New Hope had its own Landing Day—but from the looks of it, the Barclayans took the celebration a little further than his own planet did.
“Here come the VIPs,” Toshi Gant said, pointing to where the ship’s CO, Lieutenant Colonel Dupris, and a host of other people crossed the main floor to a section of seats separated from the rest by meter-tall gold curtains.
Rev, Ting-a-ling, and Rice had become a de facto team over the last couple of months, but after the rescue mission, Toshi had latched onto the other three. He was good people, and he’d performed well on the Nightingale’s Song, so he was welcomed into their little clique.
“Maybe we’ll get started soon, then. I’m with you, Rice. Let’s get the party going,” Ting-a-ling said.
The VIP party stopped short of sitting down as they mingled, shook hands, and chatted. It was a good five minutes before they finally took their seats. The lights over the stands and chairs out on the floor dimmed, and a voice rang out. “Ladies and gentlemen, citizens of Barclay and visitors, welcome to the 154th Landing Day Celebration of the place we call home!”
Cheers and applause filled the hall.
Maybe that’s why they celebrate so hard. They’re still a young planet.
“If everyone will rise for the presentation of the colors.”
A single militiaman, dressed in a kilt and what looked like a leopard skin draped over his shoulder and covering most of his uniform, marched the length of the floor, pounding out the beats on a drum that hung on his side. His face could have been hewn out of granite, showing no emotion at all.
He marched to the front of the VIPs, and in very precise, almost mechanical movements, he performed an elaborate about-face, his arm steadily pounding a slow beat. He froze with his right arm at its highest, the rest of his body completely still. The crowd quieted.
The drummer drew out the moment, and Rev could almost see people lean forward in anticipation. With a sudden flurry, both of the militiaman’s arms flew into a blur, beating out a staccato flurry.
“Color Guard, forward, march!” a high-pitched voice rang out but with authority, and the drummer returned to a steady cadence.
Rev turned slightly to his right to see two young people marching forward, one holding the CoH flag, one the Barclayan flag. They had on what looked to be a version of the Galaxy Scout uniform, very similar to what the Galaxy Scouts wore on New Hope, at least. Rev could see the pride in the young woman and man as they marched forward, knowing that the eyes of the planet were upon them at that moment.
Rev joined all the military in coming to attention as the color guard made its way to the dais and performed a smart-looking reverse march move to finish up facing the crowd, backs toward the VIPs. The crowd broke out into applause.
A man and a woman climbed onto the stage. The woman held back while the man took center stage. Music started playing, and the man sang the planetary anthem. The crowd sang along with him, making the auditorium shake. The crowd cheered as the song finished.
“Damn,” Ting-a-ling said. “Pretty stippy-do impressive, I gotta say.”
The man retreated, and the woman, dressed in a full-length, peach formal gown, took her place in the center.
The music started again, but this time the familiar strains to the Congress of Humanity anthem, “One Galaxy.” Rev had heard the anthem a thousand times, and it had never resonated much with him. So, it surprised him when emotions started welling up, and he started singing along with her, for the first time feeling the words. Maybe it was just having completed the mission on the Nightingale’s Song. Maybe he was finally buying into the mantra of transcending planetary affiliations. Whatever it was, Rev was getting choked up as he sang the final refrain:
From the embrace of the Mother,
We reach for the stars.
From the embrace of the Mother,
We show who we are.
One people, united in destiny,
Inheriting the universe.
Our birthright.
As the last strains faded away, Rev reached quickly to wipe away a tear. The crowd’s applause was a little more muted than it was with the planetary anthem, but Rev didn’t care. For him, something had changed at that moment. Something for the good.
The two color guards performed opposite facing movements and then marched around to set the flags into holders on either side of the raised dais before they retreated out of sight in the wings. The first speaker stepped up to the podium in the middle of the dais.
“OK, here comes the pablum,” Rice said.
“Citizens of Barclay and honored guests, as prime minister of this special place we call home, I want to welcome you here to our Landing Day ceremony, the first since our victory over the Centaurs.”
There was a raucous standing ovation, and the prime minister let it carry on for a good twenty seconds before he spoke again. “And I’d like to offer a personal welcome to our special guests, the crew of the MCS Takagahara and Fox Company, Second of the Second. They arrived a day late, but for a good reason. They are here immediately after rescuing the Nightingale’s Song from criminal forces. While we are enjoying the peace, the Home Guard, made up of citizen-soldiers from throughout humanity, are risking their lives to protect us all. How about we give them a Barclay round of applause?”
He turned to where they were sitting and asked them to stand up. Rev felt a little self-conscious as he stood, waves of applause rolling over them. This time, the prime minister let it last longer until the ship’s XO and Major Yves sat, followed by the rest of the sailors and troopers.
The prime minister looked out over the crowd for a moment and cleared his throat. “One hundred and fifty-four years ago, the Wayward Star arrived in system with 4,322 settlers. The first shuttle, with eighty-two people aboard, touched down at Landing Point . . .”
The fifteen-minute speech was just about what Rev expected. The prime minister retold the next 154 years, covering the hardships and trials the planet had faced, including a commercial dispute early on that kept vital supplies from arriving and how the first settlers made do. Two plagues, riots, a blockade. But he spent more time on achievements and how the citizens overcame adversary to create a vibrant nation. Rev hadn’t planned on paying much attention, but he was drawn in. While the incidents that formed Barclay might have been different from those experienced on New Hope, the overall scope of events was pretty much the same.
Maybe we’re more alike than I thought.
The prime minister was followed by the CoH representative. Her short speech could almost be taken word-for-word and transported to New Hope for their Landing Day, or any other planet, for that matter.
She was followed by a teen who spoke about what it meant to her to be a Barclayan, and then by a younger teen who recited a poem he’d written much along the same lines. And surprisingly, that was all for the speeches.
“Damn. That’s it? I can sure go with that,” Rice said before Rev elbowed her in the ribs.
The ceremony wasn’t over, though. A troop of about thirty small children came out and sang a song. They weren’t really that good, and Rev had problems catching all the words, but they weren’t bad, and they were rather cute. They were much younger than Neesy and Kat, but Rev felt a pang of homesickness as they performed.
A group of teens was next. Rev realized why the entire floor hadn’t been filled with chairs when they positioned themselves in the empty floor space, making it into a dance stage. They performed a routine in kilts where they tapped and danced in unison, their legs flying around like crazy while their upper bodies were almost perfectly still. It had the look of something traditional.
“Do you know what that is?” he asked Punch.
<It is a Barclayan step dance, which is based on Irish ceili dance, English country dance, and French quadrilles.>
Rev wasn’t much of a dancer, and he had no points of reference for what Punch just told him, but it was fun to watch.
There were three more performances: two singers and a group of performing bagpipers. The pipers were dressed like the drummer who had called for the colors in kilts and military dress uniform tops. They marched around in changing formations, all the time wailing away on their bagpipes—which to Rev, looked—and sounded—like they had cats under their arms and were biting their tails.
The troopers had been told that the highlight of the ceremony would be a military “beating.” Rev wondered if this was it. While interesting, he wasn’t sure that this should be the “highlight.” He rather enjoyed the little kids singing and the dancers more.
But the applause was deafening.
“I guess you have to grow up with it,” Ting-a-ling said.
As soon as the bagpipers left the stage, the lights went out, and murmurs of anticipation rose from the audience.
Rev was about to blink on his night vision, but he realized this was part of the show, so he withheld. He wanted to experience whatever was going to happen as it was intended.
He almost jumped when the spotlight flashed on, revealing a single drummer, the same one who’d called for the colors, frozen, right arm holding a drumstick raised high, left hand low with the other drumstick resting on the drum itself. He stood like a statue as if waiting for the crowd to become silent. He stood still for about fifteen seconds—which seemed like an eternity—before he started slowly bringing the aloft arm down while raising the other, like a mechanical man in a giant Swiss cuckoo clock. At the last moment, he flicked his wrist, sending out a single drumbeat reverberating through the auditorium. After a moment, that drumbeat was answered by another from somewhere back in the darkness.
Now, with his left hand held high, the drummer repeated the process, but a little quicker, lowering the left and raising the right arm. He used the same wrist flick at the end to make the beat. The answering beat followed almost immediately. The spotlighted drummer repeated again, and this became a one-minute case of dueling drums. With a shift that was hard to catch, suddenly, the two drums were pounding out an intricate beat together. A larger spotlight snapped on, illuminating a formation of twenty-four militiamen surrounding the lead drummer.
Rev felt his pulse start to rise, almost as if his warrior was trying to break through.
“Can you record this?”
<I’m sorry, but I have been blocked from doing that.>
Rev wanted to argue. This wasn’t some military secret, but he knew it wouldn’t do any good. He focused, trying to embed this in his memory.
Like the teen dancers before them, the drummers were expressionless, the only movement being the pounding and marching. While the drummers beat out a tattoo, the formation shifted, bringing everyone into a line. The pounding got louder, the beats more detailed.
The drummer on the far left snapped his left drumstick to eye level, stick parallel to the ground, the right one resting on the drumhead, and froze for three seconds before resuming his drumming and slipping back into the beat with the rest. The drummer to his immediate right followed suit, repeating it. Once he was done, it was the next drummer and all the way down the line. When the far-right drummer did it, the crowd broke out into applause again, but the drums drowned most of that out.
The line broke up with every other drummer performing an about-face and both lines marching away—except for the far right and far left drummers who turned to face each other. With the bulk of the drummers moving into a quieter beat, the two went wild, their arms flying in a complex rhythm, until without warning, each flicked one of their drumsticks, sending it flying across the twenty meters separating the two.
Rev’s heart jumped to his throat, and Rice grabbed his knee in a death grip as the sticks arced across the space . . . only to be snagged by the opposing drummer and immediately folded into the beat. This time, the roar of the crowd drowned out the drums.
They mirrored each other’s movements and beating for another ten seconds until they returned the drumsticks to their owners in the same manner, with high, arching throws. Within seconds, they had melded back into an everchanging formation as drummers intermixed in complex patterns, all the time with the drums sounding the patterns.
Two smaller spotlights appeared on either side of the main one, each illuminating a single drummer holding a huge, vertical drum hanging in front of them. Their much larger drumsticks were attached to their wrists with straps, and they started pounding away, giving a much deeper, chest-rattling boom with each strike. As they marched forward to join the formation, the other drummers parted like sardines making way for sharks. The two beat their drums, sometimes twirling their drumsticks at the end of the straps before retrieving them for another strike.
The formations became frenzied—not quite chaotic, because there was obvious intent and control—but the movements quicker, the drum beats quicker, the volume rising to a crescendo, and Rev thought his heart was going to burst in excitement.
Then, just as it looked like drums were going to come apart in the onslaught, the drummers froze, heads finally moving to snap up as if looking to the stars, right arm raised. The spotlight stayed on them for a full five seconds before they turned off, leaving the auditorium in darkness.
But not silent. Rev joined the rest and jumped to his feet, roaring his approval. Ting-a-ling, Rice, and Toshi were jumping up and down, pounding his back—or maybe he was pounding theirs. He didn’t know.
When the lights came back on, the drum corps was nowhere in sight. But they were in everyone’s mind.
Rev felt . . . amazing, would be an apt term. He’d gone into the ceremony as something to be endured. He was a New Hope citizen, not a Barclayan. Yes, he was also a Home Guard trooper, and his job was to serve the whole of humanity, but that was more of an academic concept, not something he felt in his bones.
But, after attending the ceremony—not just the beating, but the entire thing—it hit him what that really meant. And at the moment, he bought into it. These people, these Barclayans, were his people, just as much as the Frisians, the Mezames, the Heges, the AIWs. Even the Mad Dogs.
It might sound corny, but at the moment, Rev considered himself a citizen of the galaxy.
* * *
Rev let out a long and satisfying burp. He could get used to this white cider the locals kept touting. It was different from the apple and pear ciders back on New Hope and Enceladus. It went down smooth, had a nice aftertaste, and more than a little kick.
He took the final bite of his pasty, licked his fingers clean, then finished off his cider. He was feeling the alcohol, and for a moment, he wondered if he should call it a night, but with a shrug, he punched in an order of another glass, and this time, decided to try a curried mince pasty.
The Angry Pelican was a hub of activity. Fox Company had made it their unofficial liberty headquarters, and tonight, their last night on the planet, it was hopping. The pub had run out of alcohol twice already and was only now serving due to the owners buying up the stock of other area bars, then getting an emergency shipment from their distributor.
For all the activity going on, Rev was happy to be sitting in the back, nominally with a couple of the troopers in his platoon. But he was only physically in their proximity. He’d pulled his chair back into the corner so he wouldn’t be drawn into conversations.
Rev needed to decompress. It wasn’t as if he’d gone crazy like many of the troopers. He hadn’t joined the “hook-up line” that first morning where locals—and some visitors—had come to meet troopers and sailors. He’d lost Ting-a-ling and Rice that day to eager partners and hadn’t seen them since. At first, that had bothered him as the four of them had planned several activities together. But he understood the allure of a romantic liaison and accepted it. What helped was when he and Toshi decided that with the others hooking up, they’d go to the “family line,” where local families were ready to “adopt” the troopers and sailors for a day.
Rev’s family was the Remingtons. Dan and Leona were in their thirties and had two kids, Dan Junior and Beth. Their house was lovely and on a hill overlooking the city. Rev had felt a little self-conscious invading their home, but that didn’t last. Dan was close to Rev’s size, and he lent Rev a set of sweats so he could get out of his uniform. Beth reminded him of Kat, and that elicited a little bit of homesickness. He’d spent the day with them, enjoying just relaxing and being out of the Guard, at least mentally. With the humans he’d killed just a couple of days before, that’s what he needed.
The time was only supposed to last for a day, but when Dan had invited him to go trout fishing the next morning, he’d agreed. Rev hadn’t fished much at home, and he was no expert, but it was good to get out in the forest without wondering if a Centaur was lurking just out of sight. He’d even caught two Dolly Rainbows, the local pride and joy, much to his surprise. Dan had offered to take them back to his house to cook them up, but Rev demurred and slipped each one back into the creek.
Dan treated him to a BBQ for lunch on the way back. It wasn’t Fat Alicia’s back in Anastasia, but it wasn’t bad. He thanked Dan after they got back to the hotel, then spent a few hours wandering around and seeing the sights before the time difference made it appropriate for him to call home. The calls were free, courtesy of the Barclay government, and he spent over an hour with his family.
He’d hesitated before calling Malaika. She didn’t answer, however, and he didn’t know if he felt relieved or disappointed about that.
The local VGW put on a buffet at the hotel for those not otherwise engaged. The vets wore the same hats that the vets back in New Hope did. Mr. Oliva would feel right at home with them. When Rev showed them his membership card, they’d almost dragged him to the hotel bar. He’d still be there, captive to their stories, if Corporal Incrit hadn’t seen him and asked if he was going to the Angry Pelican. Even then, he’d almost decided to hang out with the vets, but in the end, he’d joined the unattached troopers in the platoon.
He took a sip of his cider. When he’d mentioned to Dan that he’d liked the stuff, Dan, with almost religious fervor, swore white cider didn’t deserve the term. Only apple and pear were cider, and anything else was an affront to Bacchus and all the gods of drink.
Rev didn’t know about that. All he knew was that he liked it.
Heck, maybe this time with the Guard is teaching me something. First, Mad Dog Donat Azurco, and now Barclay white cider. And I’ve still got two and a half years to go.
He downed it in one large gulp, then ordered another. He wasn’t drunk, despite the best efforts of the VGW vets, but he was feeling good.
“No, no, really!” Incrit, looking a little further gone than Rev, shouted with a laugh.
“Your AI tells you jokes,” Sergeant Tims said. “And you say they’re funny?”
That caught Rev’s attention.
“Sure. Listen to this one. Can one bird tell a joke?”
“Why would a bird tell a joke?” Tims asked, probably drunker than Incrit.
The corporal waved a dismissive hand. “That’s not important. Just answer the question.”
“You tell us, Ink,” Corporal Wymont, the MDS trooper, said with open disdain.
“No, but toucan.”
There were some groans.
“Get it? No, but two can,” Incrit said, laughing far more than the joke was worth.
Rev rolled his eyes. If Incrit was bragging on Union AIs’ capabilities, that sure wasn’t going to hack it. Punch had told far better jokes even in the beginning of that stage. By the end, they were better still.
What the hell happened there?
Rev kept trying to accept the new Punch, hoping that when they got back to the Marines, he’d be like he was again. In his heart, though, he knew this wasn’t just being neutered for Guard duty. Something had changed, starting with Bluebonnet Meadows. What the change was, Rev didn’t know, and he was afraid to dig into it given his suspicions.
Who cares, though? Why shouldn’t you ask if he’s changed?
Rev started to subvocalize the question, but then he stopped as his drink arrived. He took a long draught, bolstering up his courage.
If all you do is listen in on a staff sergeant sitting in a bar, then you have a sorry life, he thought at a possible eavesdropper.
“Punch, why have you stopped telling jokes. Is something wrong with you?”
<I am operating at full functionality except for the ability to record what you see.>
That wasn’t what I asked.
“Then why don’t you tell me any more jokes?”
<You’ve never asked for one.>
That didn’t used to stop you.
There was a flicker of something low in his eyesight, something that almost looked like a sign with writing. But it was fuzzy, and before Rev could try and decipher it, it was gone. He looked up for a projector that might be sending quick messages to spur buying more drinks. Not that the pub needed to. People were already buying plenty. He couldn’t spot anything, however. If that’s what he’d seen, then the projector was well hidden.
He took another drink—maybe it was working—and tried to remember what he’d just been doing.
Oh, yeah. Punch.
But before he could dive into Punch and his jokes deeper, he heard his name shouted out. Ting-a-ling had spotted him from the door into the pub. Rev waved him over, only then noticing the older, blonde woman in a slinky iridescent purple dress who was holding onto his arm possessively—and then Rice behind the two of them with a much younger man who could still be on the shallow side of twenty.
The woman didn’t seem to be too happy to be in the pub, and she took that moment to reach around, grab Ting-a-ling’s chin, and turn him in for a kiss that looked like she was trying to swallow him like a snake with a sparrow. Not that Ting-a-ling seemed to mind, either the kiss or the hoots from the troopers around them. His hand strayed to the woman’s ample bottom, and he returned the kiss with almost violent passion until they broke and Ting-a-ling looked at Rev with a shit-eating grin.
A table opened up near the bar, and Ting-a-ling started leading the woman to it. Rice followed, dragging her . . . date? . . . to the table as well, when, to Rev’s surprise, Ting-a-ling’s woman reached out to take the young man’s free hand.
Ting-a-ling motioned for Rev to join them, but Rev was already out of his seat and heading over. Whatever had gone on with Rice and Ting-a-ling over the last two days looked to be way more interesting than what Rev had done, and he wanted to know every last gory detail.
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