Huber laughed as the cage rose. “So will I,” he said, more cheerfully than he felt. “Look, mostly I’m just stiff from sitting at a console all day. I’m not used to desk duty, that’s all.”
That was part of why he was stumbling around, all right; and he was tense from frustration at the people he had to deal with, which was another part of the problem. But at the back of Huber’s mind was the awareness that the fragments he’d caught when the shot struck might have done damage that even time and the best medical treatment couldn’t quite repair. That he might never again be fit for a field command . . .
“Lieutenant?” the black-haired woman said in concern.
Via, what had his expression been like? “Sorry,” Huber said, forcing a smile. “I was klicks away, just thinking of the work I’ve got to do in the morning.”
He must have sounded convincing, because Priamedes’ features softened with relief. To keep away from the subject of his health, Huber made his way to a table near the wickerwork railing and pulled out a chair for the woman. It was with considerable relief that he settled across from her, though.
A waitress approached with an expectant look. The dozen other customers were glancing covertly at them as well, their eyes probably drawn by Huber’s uniform and possibly his limp. There were a lot of mercenaries in Benjamin now, but the Slammers’ khaki and rampant lion patch were the trappings of nobility to those who were knowledgeable. On a planet as wealthy and interconnected as Plattner’s World, that meant most people.
Because of that perfectly accurate perception and because of the perfectly normal human resentment it engendered in other mercenaries, the United Cities were going to lose the war. A single armored regiment couldn’t defeat several divisions worth of enemies, many of whom were themselves highly sophisticated; and the other UC mercenaries weren’t cooperating with the Slammers the way they’d need to do to win.
“Lieutenant?” said Daphne Priamedes, loudly enough to penetrate Huber’s brown study. They were waiting for his order, of course. . . .
He swore in embarrassment. “Ah, there’s corn whiskey? I don’t remember the name for it here, but my sergeant when I was in Log Section . . . ?”
Priamedes nodded understanding and said to the waitress, “Zapotec—and water, I believe, unless . . . ?”
“That’s fine,” Huber said in reply to her raised eyebrow. “Anything’s fine, really.”
He didn’t know whether Zapotec was generic or a brand name; if the latter, it was probably the best available unless he’d misjudged Daphne Priamedes. Huber suddenly realized that he knew very little about anything beyond what he needed to do his job well. He and his fellow troopers wouldn’t have been nearly as effective if they hadn’t focused so completely on their jobs, but when he thought about it he felt lonely.
The waitress trotted away. Priamedes glanced around the covered patio, slapping the eyes of the others back to their own proper concerns. When she and Huber were as private as one ever is in open air, she said, “My father told me what happened at Northern Star, Lieutenant. At the end, I mean. He said it would’ve been much easier for you to kill him and his men than to capture them, but you took a considerable risk to spare their lives.”
The waitress came back with the drinks. Priamedes entered her credit chip in the reader before Huber even thought to take his out of its pouch. Via! Maybe it was a good thing he wasn’t in the field right now, because he was dropping too bloody many stitches.
Though . . . in the field he knew what he was doing reflexively. This was civilian life, and that was another matter. Arne Huber hadn’t been a civilian for a long time.
He took a swig of the liquor; it cleaned the gumminess from his mouth and tongue and focused his mind like a leap into cold water. “Ma’am,” he said, “I guess I’ve done worse things than shooting civilians who didn’t have sense enough to give up, but only by mistake or when I had to.”