“Because,” said Cooter, though the reporter’s words weren’t really meant as a question, “for it to stop, either your folks or the World Government has gotta throw in the towel. Last we heard, that hadn’t happened.”
“May a bloody happened by now,” Gale grunted, looking sourly at the sky where stars no longer shared their turf with commo and recce satellites. “Boy, wouldn’t that beat hell? Us get our asses greased because we didn’t know the war was over?”
“It’s not the World Government,” the reporter snapped. “It’s the Terran Government, and that hasn’t been the government on this world for the thirty years since we freed ourselves.”
Neither of the mercenaries responded. Cooter lowered his head over his multi-function display and fiddled with its dials.
“Look, I’m sorry,” Suilin said after a moment. He lifted his helmet and rubbed his eyes. Maybe the Wide-awake was having an effect after all. “Look, it’s just that Prosperity could be a garden spot, a paradise, if it weren’t for outsiders hired by the Terrans.”
“Sorry, troop,” said Gale as he leaned past Suilin to open the cooler on the floor of the fighting compartment. “But that’s a big negative.”
“Ninety percent of the Consies ‘re born on Prosperity,” Cooter agreed without looking up. “And I don’t mean in the Enclaves, neither.”
“Ninety-bloody-eight percent of the body count,” Gale chuckled. He lifted the cap off a beer by catching it on the edge of his gunshield and thrusting down. “Which figures, don’t it?”
He sucked the foam from the neck of the bottle and handed it to Cooter. When he opened and swigged from the second one, Gale murmured, “I’ll say this fer you guys. You brew curst good beer.”
He gave the bottle to Suilin.
It was a bottle of 33, cold and wonderfully smooth when the reporter overcame his momentary squeamishness at putting his lips on the bottle that the mercenary had licked. Suilin didn’t realize how dry his throat was until he began to drink.
“Look,” he said, “there’s always going to be malcontents. They wouldn’t be a threat to stability if they weren’t being armed and trained in the Enclaves.”
“Hey, what do I know about politics?” Gale said. He patted the breech of his tribarrel with his free hand.
A branch slapped Suilin’s helmet; he cursed with doubled bitterness. “If Coraccio’d taken the Enclaves thirty years ago, there wouldn’t be any trouble now.”
“Dream on, turtle,” Gale said over the mouth of his own beer.
“Coraccio couldn’t take the WG’s actual bases,” Cooter remarked, quickly enough to forestall any angry retort. “The security forces couldn’t hold much, but they sure-hell weren’t givin’ up the starports that were their only chance of going home to Earth.”
Gale finished his beer, belched, and tossed the bottle high over the side. The moonlit glitter seemed to curve backward as Flamethrower ground on, at high speed despite the vegetation.
“You shoulda hired us,” he said. “Well, you know—somebody like us. But we’ll take yer money now, no sweat.”
Suilin sluiced beer around in his mouth before he swallowed it. “Only a fraction of the population supported the Consies,” he said. “The Conservative Action Movement’s just a Terran front.”
“Only a fraction of the people here ‘re really behind the Nationals, either,” Cooter said. He raised his hand, palm toward Suilin in bar. “All right, sure—a bigger fraction. But what most people want’s for the shooting to stop. Trust me, turtle. That’s how it always is.”
“We’ve got a right to decide the government of our own planet!” the reporter shouted.
“You bet,” agreed the big lieutenant. “And that’s what you’re paying Hammer’s Slammers for. So their fraction gets tired of havin’ its butt kicked quicker ‘n your fraction does.”
“They’re payin’ us,” said Gale, caressing his tribarrel again, “because there’s nodamnbody in the Yokel army who’s got any balls.”
Suilin flushed. His hand tightened on his beer bottle.
“All Tootsie elements,” said a voice from Suilin’s commo helmet. “We’re approaching Phase Line Mambo, so look sharp.”
The reporter didn’t fully understand the words, but he knew by now what it meant when both mercenaries gripped their tribarrels and waggled the muzzles to be sure they turned smoothly on their gimbals.