"Sir, I fucked up," Blohm said. He wiped his eyes, angry at his weakness. "I—"
He paused, but this time he finished the sentence: "Sir, I never had anybody give a shit about me before. I can't take care of her alone, I know that. I'll do my job, sir. I'll never not do my job again."
"Go get some dinner, Blohm," Farrell said, rubbing his temples. "We've got a lot of long days ahead of us." If we live that long.
"Yes sir," Blohm said as he rose, lifting his helmet with him. Almost shyly he added, "We're having tapioca pudding again. I told her we would when I came back."
He stepped away briskly. Farrell saw Seraphina Suares and a small child waiting for the scout just beyond the range their presence would be intrusive.
Farrell remained as he was. He told himself he ought get back to fooling with the order of march, but that was a lie. He didn't have enough information to know where he should put his strikers, and he didn't have enough strikers anyway. All he'd really be doing was clutching a security blanket. It wouldn't save one single life tomorrow or in the days to come.
Tamara Lundie sat down beside him in the near darkness. "What I really want to do," he said without raising his head from his hands, "is get drunk. But I can't afford to."
"In celebration of your victory?" Lundie said.
Farrell turned his head. He'd never get used to the blonde's earnestness, not if this damned operation lasted a million years.
"No," he said, careful to keep the disgust out of his voice. She didn't know, she couldn't know; and she was trying to learn. "Because I lost people today. I'd like to get drunk enough to forget that, or at least to get some sleep."
"But . . ." Lundie said. He couldn't see any more of her face than a blur as pale as snow. "You've had casualties before. Casualties were very light today in comparison to your achievement."
"Since I took command of C41," Farrell said, feeling his face smile. You had to laugh, or . . . "The company's casualties have been three hundred and fifty percent. The magic of replacements, you see."
"But these were strikers who'd been with you for some time," Lundie said, articulating her understanding in the form of a statement rather than a question.
"I guess they were," Farrell said. "Yeah, I suppose that does make a difference. But I don't take anybody on an operational mission until they've trained with the company long enough that I know them, believe me."
He shook his head. "They all hurt," he said. "Every fucking one of them. I don't remember the names a lot of times, but I see their faces. Every fucking one."
Lundie nodded slowly. "I see," she said.
She stood up. She looked as delicate as a straw doll. "Major Farrell," she said. "I am honored to serve with you and your strikers."
She touched his hand and walked away, toward where her boss was projecting large holographic images for a group of civilians.
In a funny way, Farrell thought, Tamara saying that was better than the usual post-mission quart of cognac.
"Krishna, I'm tired," Caldwell said. "I'm going to treat myself. I'm going to take boots off. I really am."
Abbado snicked closed the latch of the bandolier he'd been about to remove. "What the hell is that?" he said softly. He walked toward the civilians gathered around a huge holographic projection. The sheeting creaked, but his boots and those of his strikers made no sound of their own.
The basis of the display was helmet imagery, mixed from multiple sources and enhanced by a very powerful editing program. You had to have been there to notice the glossy texture that replaced the gritty, vaporous reality.
Abbado had been there, all right. The projection was of the attack on the mother creature and her guards.
"Well, I'll be damned to hell," Matushek said. "How are they doing that, anyway?"
He meant the holograms. Abbado saw God down in front; nothing the manager and his aide came up with was much of a surprise any more. The other question was how 3-3 had managed to survive. That was harder to answer, now that Abbado saw the action as a spectator.
He watched as a figure, Sergeant Guilio Abbado, loosed two rockets at the gravid mother, then stepped forward so that a troll's club smashed the ground behind him. He didn't remember dodging but he must have done. It looked like a ballet pass from the outside, but he didn't remember it at all.
Monsters came from the smoke. Strikers fired point-blank. Caldwell grappled with a guard, sawing at the tendons of the creature's wrist as its other hand closed on her helmet. Grenades flashed on the guard's beaked face. Still it gripped though the club fell from nerveless fingers.