Padova stood on the plenum chamber where she could quickly slide down the driver’s hatch. She looked into the fighting compartment and shook her head. “How can Frenchie sleep?” she muttered.
“I’m on watch, Rita,” Learoyd said. “Why shouldn’t he sleep? The El-Tee’s awake too.”
He blinked. “And you.”
“Frenchie’s been here a lot of times, Rita,” Huber said, using that formation instead of, “Frenchie’s a veteran,” which the driver might find insulting. “As soon as there’s a reason, he’ll be up and doing his job.”
He grinned with a kind of affection he felt only because he and Deseau were part of the same family. “Besides, if the job’s killing, Frenchie could do that without waking up.”
Padova’d seen the elephant by now, that was for sure; but there was a difference between one hard run punctuated by firefights and the bone-deep awareness that this might be the last chance to sleep for days or longer. Frenchie’s body understood that sleeping curled up on the floor of the fighting compartment was best present use of his time.
“You think it’s going to be fighting again, don’t you?” Padova said angrily. “But who? The only people who could hire us is Nonesuch, and who would they need us to fight? They’ve got a fucking division on the ground, we saw them land it!”
“We’re going to fight Nonesuch, Rita,” Learoyd said calmly. He withdrew the loading tube from his back-up sub-machine gun, wiped it with an oily cloth, and clicked it home in the receiver again. “We’re going to take the port back.”
“And who the bloody hell is paying us to attack Nonesuch!” the driver snarled, balling her fists in frustration. “Are we going outlaw, is that what you mean?”
“I don’t know who’s paying us,” Learoyd said, bending to check the bearing in the pintle supporting his tribarrel. “But there’s nobody else to fight here, so we’re fighting Nonesuch.”
He shrugged. “The El-Tee knows we’re getting ready to fight, we all know that. So it has to be Nonesuch.”
Huber looked at Learoyd’s round, placid face; as calm as a custard, reddened as usual by sun and wind. None of them understood how the Regiment could be going into battle again on Plattner’s World. Learoyd was the only one who wasn’t bothered by ignorance: he didn’t expect to understand things.
“Yeah, Bert’s right,” Huber said. “Curst if I know how or why, but I can’t say I’m sorry. I didn’t like Lindeyar when I first met him, and he hasn’t improved with time.”
Padova hugged herself in frustration. “If we’re really going to fight,” she said, looking in the direction of the TOC, “why hasn’t Central signaled us to stand to?”
“Do you see anybody in the base who isn’t at his action station?” Huber said. “An alert might warn other people. Everybody’s waiting for it, even Frenchie. Especially Frenchie.”
He brought up the F-3 stats again on the C&C display. They were still at four cars. Sergeant Bielsky was bringing a repaired vehicle up from Benjamin, but he wouldn’t arrive for thirty hours. The four cars of the present complement had shaken down during the run and attack, even Gabinus’ Three-eight—which now had Flamingo Girl painted in fluorescent blue on both sides of the fighting compartment. All the guns had been rebarreled, all the fans were running within seventy percent of optimum, and each car had a full crew.
He glanced at Learoyd, his right arm in a stiff bend though the hand was free to grip with. Replacements had flown up from the UC in aircars, but there was no way in hell that Deseau—the car commander—or Huber wanted to go into battle with a trooper they didn’t know in place of Learoyd with one arm. There were a couple more wounded crewmen in F-3 for the same reason; it wasn’t ideal, but . . .
Huber chuckled.
“Sir?” Padova said, frowning at what she didn’t understand.
“Kind of an old joke,” he said. “If everything was ideal, nobody’d be hiring mercenaries, would they?”
He chuckled again; and as he did so, the alert signal pulsed red. Sergeant Deseau was on his feet, reaching for his tribarrel’s grips before his eyes could focus.