flown.
“Bloody right,” the Aussie lieutenant said proudly, slamming his hand against Rock’s ’brid so that the animal nearly reared. “With the Reds or the “poofs” as we call them down under, kicked right back of Bourke, they left in kind of a hurry.” He laughed again, joined in by some of his fellow Australians who had gathered around him. They were all dressed in the same outfit from head to toe—ankle-high laced brown boots, khaki shorts and short-sleeved shirts, red bandannas around their necks tied in some sort of complex knot, and the Ranger hats, squeezed at the top and worn so the ridge faced forward, with ostrich feathers around the bottoms. Around their waists were huge nickel-plated .45’s stuck in long leather holsters and around their necks were some sort of V-shaped weapons in zipped canvas pouches. “So when they departed, they left a lot of swag behind. When we found some of these big ol’ transports here—well, we all figured what the bloody hell, let’s do something good with ’em—not just be a bunch of groggy hungers and sit around on our rolls. All the mates here volunteered to join the Australian/American Freedom Brigade. And low and behold—here we are.” The Australians raised their hands in salute to Rock and his men, and again broke into cheek-to-cheek smiles. They appeared to the battle-hardened, dirt-coated American Freefighters like some sort of cross between the Boy Scouts and a parody of the British Soldiers of the ancient Imperial days of the Empire when Britain had ruled the world. Yet all the Freefighters felt an immediate affection for the enthusiastic Aussies. There was something infectious in their humor. It was as if the entire world was a big joke, even death. There was a youthfulness, an innate courage in the men that the Americans couldn’t help but be drawn to.
“Well, sorry we don’t have a parade or a band,” Rock said with a grin, “to welcome you more officially to our great land.”
“Oh, no bloody need for that,” Lieutenant Boyd said, waving his hand in the negative. “But we did bring our own refreshments for celebration—didn’t we, boys? Get the Foster.” The Australians hooted and hollered at this command, and several of them rushed over to one of the camels which had already been loaded up with cases of supplies. They pulled open the top of one of the wooden boxes and grabbed can after can, throwing them down to the waiting men below. Boyd took several of the cans and offered them to Rockson and his men.
“Here you go, mates—all the official stuff done the Aussie way. Have a tinny—it’s Foster’s—gives us the nutrition, courage, and stupidity to fight. Ay, mates?” The Aussies held up their cans, pulled the pop tops and chugged them on down.
The Century City Freefighters had a policy of never drinking while in the field. What man in his right mind would even want to? The dangers were so unending that to be even slightly out of control of mental focus was equivalent to suicide.
“I don’t think so,” Rock said, shaking his head at the Aussie, whose face began to fall.
“Rock,” Detroit whispered in the Doomsday Warrior’s ear. “Remember all our lectures from the anthropologists back in Century City about never insulting a strange race’s customs. You never know what people will do if they feel offended. We could each take a sip—you know, like smoking the peace pipe.”
Rock looked over at the Australian force, which was beginning to look decidedly depressed that their beer ritual had been denied.
“Sure,” the Doomsday Warrior said with a laugh, reaching out for the proffered beer in Lieutenant Boyd’s hand. “We’d all be delighted to share a sip of your native brew with you.” He leaned back atop his ’brid and took a big gulp. A smile appeared on Rock’s face like a crescent moon suddenly floating from behind a cloud. “Hey—this stuffs great. That’s the best damned beer I’ve ever drunk.” The
“Bloody right,” the Aussie lieutenant said proudly, slamming his hand against Rock’s ’brid so that the animal nearly reared. “With the Reds or the “poofs” as we call them down under, kicked right back of Bourke, they left in kind of a hurry.” He laughed again, joined in by some of his fellow Australians who had gathered around him. They were all dressed in the same outfit from head to toe—ankle-high laced brown boots, khaki shorts and short-sleeved shirts, red bandannas around their necks tied in some sort of complex knot, and the Ranger hats, squeezed at the top and worn so the ridge faced forward, with ostrich feathers around the bottoms. Around their waists were huge nickel-plated .45’s stuck in long leather holsters and around their necks were some sort of V-shaped weapons in zipped canvas pouches. “So when they departed, they left a lot of swag behind. When we found some of these big ol’ transports here—well, we all figured what the bloody hell, let’s do something good with ’em—not just be a bunch of groggy hungers and sit around on our rolls. All the mates here volunteered to join the Australian/American Freedom Brigade. And low and behold—here we are.” The Australians raised their hands in salute to Rock and his men, and again broke into cheek-to-cheek smiles. They appeared to the battle-hardened, dirt-coated American Freefighters like some sort of cross between the Boy Scouts and a parody of the British Soldiers of the ancient Imperial days of the Empire when Britain had ruled the world. Yet all the Freefighters felt an immediate affection for the enthusiastic Aussies. There was something infectious in their humor. It was as if the entire world was a big joke, even death. There was a youthfulness, an innate courage in the men that the Americans couldn’t help but be drawn to.
“Well, sorry we don’t have a parade or a band,” Rock said with a grin, “to welcome you more officially to our great land.”
“Oh, no bloody need for that,” Lieutenant Boyd said, waving his hand in the negative. “But we did bring our own refreshments for celebration—didn’t we, boys? Get the Foster.” The Australians hooted and hollered at this command, and several of them rushed over to one of the camels which had already been loaded up with cases of supplies. They pulled open the top of one of the wooden boxes and grabbed can after can, throwing them down to the waiting men below. Boyd took several of the cans and offered them to Rockson and his men.
“Here you go, mates—all the official stuff done the Aussie way. Have a tinny—it’s Foster’s—gives us the nutrition, courage, and stupidity to fight. Ay, mates?” The Aussies held up their cans, pulled the pop tops and chugged them on down.
The Century City Freefighters had a policy of never drinking while in the field. What man in his right mind would even want to? The dangers were so unending that to be even slightly out of control of mental focus was equivalent to suicide.
“I don’t think so,” Rock said, shaking his head at the Aussie, whose face began to fall.
“Rock,” Detroit whispered in the Doomsday Warrior’s ear. “Remember all our lectures from the anthropologists back in Century City about never insulting a strange race’s customs. You never know what people will do if they feel offended. We could each take a sip—you know, like smoking the peace pipe.”
Rock looked over at the Australian force, which was beginning to look decidedly depressed that their beer ritual had been denied.
“Sure,” the Doomsday Warrior said with a laugh, reaching out for the proffered beer in Lieutenant Boyd’s hand. “We’d all be delighted to share a sip of your native brew with you.” He leaned back atop his ’brid and took a big gulp. A smile appeared on Rock’s face like a crescent moon suddenly floating from behind a cloud. “Hey—this stuffs great. That’s the best damned beer I’ve ever drunk.” The
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