EPILOGUE
Headquarters, Seventh Independent Military Police Battalion, Ravenette
Colonel Delbert Cogswell rubbed his hands together enthusiastically and chortled, “Sarn Majer, we’ll have us the goldangest beer bust anybody here or back on Lannoy’s ever seen!” Among his own, he chose to speak the vernacular of his home planet, a place where “book learnin’” was actively frowned upon. He laughed and slapped his thigh. “Sarn Majer, you shoulda seen those old boys! They was drunk as bopaloos when we picked ’em up and puked all over on the way to the POW camp! Funniest damned thing I ever saw. Made ’em clean up their mess when we got there.” He laughed again. “Personal orders of General Lyons. He called me personally and gave me that mission, Sarn Majer, by God!” The call from Lyons had been the first time anyone in command had bothered to recognize his existence.
The colonel was beside himself with joy and satisfaction. He had been given a mission by General Lyons himself, personally directed to arrest the members of the Committee on the Conduct of the War. Well, not all of them, but what the hell, innocent people are always gathered up in sweeps. The commandant of the camp at Cogglesville would sort the innocent from the guilty in good time. “Went off without a hitch, without a hitch! Got ’em all, Sarn Majer, got ’em all. Ah, you shoulda been there! The boys did well, very well.”
“Well, you din’t ask me along, Colonel.”
“Ah? Hum, well, er, Sarn Majer, I needed to leave somebody behind who could, er”—he waved vaguely—“make decisions, keep things running. You know. Anyways, back to the beer party. The boys done well yesterday and we’re gonna reward everyone. We are gonna get some kinda drunk tonight.”
Krampus Steiner, the Seventh Independent MP Battalion sergeant major, regarded his commanding officer quizzically out of one eye. Steiner was not known for joviality. Of all the men in the battalion he’d be the first in line to beat somebody up, but never drunk, always sober. He loved controlled violence, and the one thing that annoyed him most about his battalion was the spontaneity of the carnage its men unleashed. That is why the Seventh MPs had the nickname Vigilante Battalion, and it was one of the reasons they’d been consigned to coast watch duty, to keep them away from civilization and out of the way of the truly effective military units that were fighting the war. Isolated as they were, the men had fallen to fighting among themselves, and Steiner did not like that. “You get the boys liquored up, Colonel, ’n’ they’ll be at each other’s throats like wild dogs,” he warned.
Cogswell made a dismissive gesture and grunted, “Aw, the boys need to blow off some steam, Sarn Majer! You know how they is. Damn, git on board here, will ya?”
“Colonel”—Steiner decided to change the subject—“we might have some real information with them two prisoners Lieutenant Keesey’s got down there in First Company. We oughta be extractin’ that intelligence—”
“You mean the two beachcombers who washed up the other day? Naw, Sarn Majer, they’s a couple of bums. Let Keesey play around with ’em for a while before we turn ’em over to Division. Or maybe not. After Keesey gets through with ’em, won’t be too much left,” Cogswell chuckled good-naturedly. “Be good training for Keesey,” he added, “string out the interrogation process, maybe really git somethin’ outta them two. But who gives a shit?” He shrugged.
Steiner came back to the prospective party. “You know, Colonel, once word of this party gits out, the division commander’s liable to relieve the both of us?”
“Huh?” Cogswell’s mind was on the imminent arrival of the girls and booze. “Relieve us? Why? ‘Dereliction of duty’? Hah! They put us away out here to git rid of us, Sarn Majer, this ain’t no majer vulnerability, this damned coastline. Otherwise they’d have put some real combat outfit here to watch out fer the enemy. Anyways, I don’t give a damn. Let the old fancy pants relieve me! This is a bullshit war anyway. Besides”—he thumped his chest—“I got a personal relationship with General Lyons, after what we did for him yesterday.”
“Well, sir, we need to detail a couple of platoons to coast watch tonight—”
“Forget it, Sarn Majer! I declare a training holiday for the battalion! No staff duty officer, no staff duty NCO either. Jus’ let the men enjoy themselves fer one night. They can go back to this bullshit coast watchin’ when they sober up, whenever that might be. An’ if division tries to get in touch with us tonight, put ’em on hold.” Cogswell laughed.
Steiner gave up. What the hell, he thought, life on the coast is a crashing bore, no chance of any action, the boys may as well enjoy themselves. But he would return to the command post and harass his clerks some more. He knew from experience that once the colonel got an idea fixed between his ears it was a waste of breath trying to change it. He thanked the colonel for his time, stepped back one pace, saluted smartly, about-faced, and marched out of Colonel Cogswell’s tent. On his way back to the CP, he noticed a long line of heavily escorted lorries pulling into camp. As each vehicle came to a stop in a swirl of dust, men crowded around and began to unload crates and boxes under the direction of the battalion supply officer; the battalion medical officer escorted a crowd of young women to his aid station. From where he stood watching, Steiner could tell the women were the kind who needed medical attention. Well, by nightfall there wouldn’t be a man in the battalion, Colonel Cogswell included, who’d give a damn. With that thought in mind he had to laugh out loud.
Seventh Independent MP Camp
In the deluge of alcohol and clouds of thule that had engulfed the men of the Seventh Independent Military Police Battalion since sundown, they had lost track of time, but no one really cared. Dawn would soon arrive, and when it did, the men would be just as inebriated as they had been at midnight. Best of all, they would still be at it by sundown, those who could still lift an arm by then. “Boy, it sure is drunk out tonight!” men exclaimed, pounding each other on the shoulders in alcoholic bonhomie.
Colonel Cogswell, a disheveled girl from town on one arm, had dropped in at the Fourth Company’s tent to pay his respects to the company commander and his first sergeant. He had been both booed and cheered good-naturedly by the men as he rolled unsteadily through the tent flaps. With a casual gesture involving the middle finger of one hand, he rendered a bilious acknowledgment to the greetings that sent everyone into peals of laughter. “Mighty fine war we got ourselves into, eh?” he exclaimed to the vast amusement of the men. Someone handed him a schooner of ale, half of which ran down the front of the colonel’s uniform as he tried to drink and talk at the same time. That was probably a good thing because the ale washed off the flecks of vomit clinging there from his visit to the Third Company’s soirée, where one of the enlisted men had thrown up on him. His only comment at the time had been “Aw, shit happens.”
The girl on his arm was so drunk she virtually floated along by his side. “Lissen!” she shrilled, interrupting Colonel Cogswell in midsentence and popping an olive into her mouth. “You can hear it splash as it hits my stomach!” The men roared their approval. She had informed Colonel Cogswell that her name was Blossom, which he graciously acknowledged fit her very well. To a sober man, Blossom was nothing to look at; but drunk as they all were, despite her huge hips, pendulous dugs, scraggly locks of indeterminate hue, and the gaps between the stumps of her teeth, the men saw her as something akin to Botticelli’s Venus rising demurely from the sea. Of course, some of them would probably have thought the same of her sober. The Seventh Independent Military Police Battalion was the best thing that had ever happened to Blossom.
A corporal—the company’s orderly-room clerk and the only woman in the battalion—had been arguing with the first sergeant all night about which had, at any time in their lives, done the most outrageous thing while under the influence. By the time of Colonel Cogswell’s grand entrance they had both recited an extensive litany of stupid pranks, each one trying to top the other. Toward the end each had found it necessary to be slightly inventive in their tales.
“Awrrrriiight!” the first sergeant bellowed at last. “We are gonna end this right now! Corporal Puella Queege, you are a bullshit artist, plain an’ simple, and I’m a-gonna prove it. Colonel, you be the judge here.” The first sergeant held up his arms and called for silence. When he had it at last, he stood on a chair and addressed the men who could still stand. “I bet Corporal Queege here one hunnert credits she won’t eat what’s under this cover on this here tray!” All evening the first sergeant had jealously guarded a tray on the table behind him. It was covered with a large linen napkin. Dark brown stains had crept through the fabric during the evening, and despite many inquiries, the top sergeant had vehemently refused to let anyone see what was under the cover. “I got sumptin’ here for a special purpose,” he kept telling everyone. With a dramatic flare, he pulled off the napkin.
“What in the name of Holy Hepzibah are those?” Colonel Cogswell exclaimed.
“These,” the first sergeant exclaimed, “are half a dozen baked baby slimies covered in chocolate!”
A collective scream of horror escaped from the crowd. Everyone hastily stepped back from the table. Blossom was so unsteady on her feet that she fell over backward, but all eyes were on the six tiny lumps on the tray, and nobody, not even the battalion commander, noticed Blossom’s sudden descent. There she remained the rest of the evening. She was in good company, however; several men lay there who’d passed out earlier.
“I baked ’em myself,” the first sergeant announced with pride. “Now, here’s the deal: Queege here, she’s gotta eat all six of these babies in five minutes flat. Then drink a full liter of beer ’n’ keep it all down for another five minutes to win this here hunnert credits.”
“Oh my, oh my, oh my,” Colonel Cogswell chuckled facetiously, “for a thousand credits I might do that myself!”
“It ain’t for the money, sir,” the first sergeant replied, “but the glory ’n’ honor of puttin’ her big mouth where her big mouth is, sorta, so to speak. Whaddya say, Queege old squeegee? Put up or fuckin’ shut up. That’s the deal, an’ here’s the credits.” He slammed a bill on the bar.
Corporal Queege regarded the six little lumps on the tray. Well, they were only, say, a mouthful each. Six mouthfuls of slimie? Hell, she thought, anybody could choke that down in five minutes, and a liter of beer afterward. By her calculations, she’d already consumed several liters of beer. She bent forward and studied the lumps. Yep, they were slimies, all right. She could make out their little heads, the bulging eyes and the tiny cilia all over them that looked like hair, the reptilian snouts, the rows of sharp little teeth, the squamous hides covered with little nodules, the various appendages and the long, ratlike tails. Everyone knew the troops under siege at Fort Seymour had been reduced to eating the things, and the ones they ate were adults. These looked to be almost newborns. And they were covered with chocolate? She reached out a finger experimentally and tasted the sludgy brown coatings.
“Not so fast, Queege!” the first sergeant shouted. “No tasting!”
“Yep, that’s chocolate!” Queege exclaimed, a huge smile slowly creeping over her face. If Corporal Puella Queege could win the contest, she would be assured lasting fame in the Seventh MP Battalion, fame and respect that would find its way far beyond that desolate camp on Ravenette. Once the story got out, she could go into any bar back home and drink for free just on the basis of her courageous deed. All she’d ever wanted to be was a woman who was just one of the boys. “Yer on, Top!” she shouted. She matched the first sergeant’s bet with a wad of crumpled bills. Men in the crowd quickly made side bets. The wagers ran in favor of the first sergeant. Everyone knew the company clerk was a blowhard. They also knew there was a lot more between her and the first sergeant than duty rosters and morning reports, which is why none had ever attempted to put the make on her, as pretty, in a manly way, as she was. In their drunken stupor they saw the contest as a unique lovers’ quarrel.
“I shall observe the gustatory proceedings,” Colonel Cogswell pronounced with drunken gravity, swaying slightly, “and judge the contest fairly and squarely.” He bent close to observe Queege better.
“I need a fork!” she said. Someone handed her one. She took up her position before the table, flexed her shoulders, took a deep breath, and dug into the first slimie. The creature’s body crackled distinctly as the fork cut through the chocolate into its insides. Slowly Puella raised the mess to her mouth. Tendrils of blue-gray intestine dangled obscenely from the mess. She closed her eyes, popped the meat into her mouth, and swallowed. A long soulful sigh, a collective gasp of awe, escaped from the onlookers. Someone placed a full schooner of ale on the table beside the tray.
“Thirty seconds!” the first sergeant shouted. “You jist gettin’ started, girl!”
The first slimie went down easily. Puella swallowed the material quickly, to avoid tasting it. The next one, at one minute, was a little more difficult. She couldn’t help looking at the four left on the tray. She’d have to hurry! She got number three down in fifteen seconds. A strange purple juice mixed with chocolate dribbled down her chin, but Puella paid it no attention. Numbers four and five each disappeared in ten seconds flat, but on number six, she had trouble. It was the taste; it was finally penetrating her senses. She realized with horror that the first sergeant had not baked the slimies after all, only covered them with a thin layer of chocolate! She was eating raw slimie! She fought desperately to keep down what she’d eaten. As from a vast distance she was aware of someone’s counting, like the referee at a prizefight giving the count to the man on the canvas.
“Twenty-five, twenty-four…,” the first sergeant counted. Good God, had that much time slipped by? Twenty-four, no, twenty-three seconds of the five minutes left?
Puella grabbed the remaining slimie in one hand and stuffed it directly into her mouth and forced it down with a huge spasm of effort.
“I declare the corporal the winnah!” Colonel Cogswell announced, holding up one of Puella’s dangling arms.
“Not so fast! She’s gotta drink this liter of ale an’ keep it all down five minutes!” the first sergeant reminded everyone.
“Okay, okay,” Puella gasped, wiping the viscous juices from her chin. She grabbed the stein, put it to her lips, and began to drink. She drank slowly, steadily, so as not to spill any of the beer.
As each mouthful went down, the crowd stamped its feet and shouted, “Down! Down! Down!…” Finally, victoriously, Puella held the stein bottoms-up and let out a satisfied burp.
“Goddammit, girl, keep it down for five minutes.” The first sergeant was getting desperate now that his clerk was so close to winning the bet. “Tasted good, eh?” he goaded her, and pretended to vomit. “Yer stomach is bulgin’ like a woman nine months pregnant, Queege old squeegee, looks bad, looks bad. How y’feelin’? Ready to toss yer cookies?”
“Four more minutes, Corporal,” Colonel Cogswell announced.
Puella’s stomach really did feel bloated. She burped again. A terrible smell escaped through her mouth, so bad she waved the fumes away with a hand.
“A mouth fart! A mouth fart!” the first sergeant yelled.
Puella fought to keep the mess down. It felt, good God, as if the stuff was moving around down there! She swallowed hard. Another burp escaped her stomach. She began to perspire. “Three more minutes!”
At last the ordeal was over. “I now declare the corporal the winnah!” Colonel Cogswell announced, putting a hand on Puella’s sweat-soaked shoulder. He couldn’t help regarding her with a bit of anxiety because she did not look well. Cautiously, he stepped back a pace. Puella gave him a sickly grin and leaned over the bar, scooped up her winnings, and held the crumpled bills on high.
Men bellowed curses and cheers. Someone stepped out of the crowd and began pounding Puella on the back. That was all it took. Puella reeled over to the first sergeant. “You lyin’ sonofabitch!” she screamed, and emptied the entire contents of her stomach down the front of his uniform.
Interrogation Center
But one officer of the Seventh Independent Military Police Battalion was not participating in the festivities that evening. He was Lieutenant Keesey, commanding First Company, and he had serious business to attend to.
Keesey’s “business” was Charlette Odinloc, who lay stripped and tied to a table in a storage room hastily converted into an interrogation chamber. “Well,” he hissed, running a clammy hand along her rib cage, “I don’t really keer if you tell me the truth ’cause what I’m about to do to you is find out the truth my own way, and this will hurt you a lot more than it’ll hurt me.” He smirked and stroked her silently for a moment. “On second thought, maybe you’ll enjoy what’s comin’, honey. Most wimmen do. Laugh at me, willya?” he said, referring to their first encounter as he unbuckled his trousers. “Well, this time the last laugh’s—”
Someone kicked the door open with a crash. Keesey whirled. “Goddamn drunks!” he screamed, but no one was there. The wind, he thought. But there was no wind that night. His heart began to race as the first tendrils of fear crept into his stomach.
“Freeze, asshole! You are now my prisoner,” a voice said out of thin air.
Charlette let out a shout of joy. She knew what chameleons were. The Marines had landed!