“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.
The image faded into pearly radiance, then blacked out. Manager al-Ibrahimi rose to his feet and bowed to the four strikers. Colonists turned, craned their necks and stood for a better view.
There were hundreds of them watching. Hundreds.
“Ah . . .” Abbado said. “Ah, we didn’t mean to disturb anybody.”
Christ, he didn’t know what to say. “Come on,” he muttered to Horgen. “Let’s get some dinner and I’ll check the guard roster with Kristal.”
Their billet was nearby, a hundred square feet of sheeting where Kristal had had 3-3’s excess gear dumped to await their return from patrol. The plastic heaved. Abbado looked over his shoulder. The crowd of civilians was following them.
“I’ll be damned to hell,” Ace repeated.
Dr. Ciler gripped Abbado’s hand and shook it. “I’m so sorry about Striker Glasebrook,” he said. “He was a hero. Hundreds would have died. Sergeant, you’re all heroes.”