applied.
On an esplanade that skirted one of Llyr’s larger domes was an open-air food court. Cafés and restaurants served local staples, either fish-based or derived from homegrown algae crops. There were also stalls selling imported treats at eye-watering prices. A can of soda would set you back an average week’s wages; a bar of chocolate twice that.
At a large communal table Sigursdottir ordered tapas for everybody. Dishes arrived in dribs and drabs, brought by a slender young waiter who seemed intimidated by the Marines, and with good reason.
“Ohhh, yeah,” said Milgrom, watching him walk away to fetch more food. “Look at that tight butt. I’d grab myself two handfuls of that and just tear.”
“Kind of skinny,” said Blunt. “I prefer a man with a bit of meat on him.”
“Like Master Chief Reynolds, you mean?”
“Will you shut the fuck up about Master Chief Reynolds?”
“I would, but he’s just so dreamy ,” Francis cooed, fluttering her eyelashes.
Blunt clouted her round the head. Francis just giggled.
“I like ’em skinny,” said Milgrom. “Less resistance with the skinny ones. You can really show ’em who’s in charge.” She wolf-whistled at the waiter. “Isn’t that right, gorgeous? I know what you want. You want me to slap you down on the ground and straddle you. Ride you ’til you’re worn to a nub. Am I right?”
The waiter smiled wanly, no doubt thinking of his tip. So to speak.
Dev sampled everything on offer. Battered lumps of fish. Fish in sauce. Fish roe. Greasy fish-tasting globs. Assorted types of shellfish and mollusc. Chunks of algae cut into shapes and cooked to resemble vegetables. Yet more fish.
Fortunately there was beer, to rinse the fishiness out of your mouth. Fermented-seaweed beer, to be precise, but it was close enough to the real thing – and a great deal less hazardous than double moonshine.
The drunker Milgrom got, the worse she behaved. She pawed the hapless waiter whenever he went by. She flirted crudely with a group of men at the adjacent table, who began by encouraging her but after a while got bored and started studiously ignoring her. She bellowed out dirty, but admittedly very funny, jokes. Stern looks from Sigursdottir would quieten her for a while, but then she would begin again.
Blunt, Francis and the other privates weren’t much better. They took the corporal’s rowdiness as a licence to vamp it up themselves.
Dev could see that Sigursdottir was cutting her troops some slack. They were on shore leave. They should be allowed to make the most of the down-time and fool around a little.
He feared, however, that things were going to get out of hand, and that it might happen faster than Sigursdottir realised.
He wasn’t sure what it was, but there was a mood hanging over Llyr. Something in the air. He sensed it without being able to put his finger on it. During the walk from the marina to the esplanade he had noticed furtive looks from the residents, a shiftiness in the presence of the Marines. People going about their daily business had stiffened as the team went by, relaxing when they were gone.
It had occurred to him that this could be how the settlers normally reacted around the military. There was an inherent tension, a simmering mistrust. Servicemen often had that effect on civilians.
What he was reminded of, however, was the way crooks acted whenever the police showed up. Even the most hardened criminals shied away from cops, doing their best to look innocent, which of course only served to make them look guilty. Dev had seen it a lot during his misspent youth. Law enforcers were like searchlights. You didn’t dare look at them directly. You lowered your gaze and turned away, waiting until their attention was no longer on you.
As far as he knew, Llyr was an ordinary town. Law-abiding. Everything above board here. So why were the residents behaving as though it wasn’t?
He could feel the tension deepening as the Marines got
On an esplanade that skirted one of Llyr’s larger domes was an open-air food court. Cafés and restaurants served local staples, either fish-based or derived from homegrown algae crops. There were also stalls selling imported treats at eye-watering prices. A can of soda would set you back an average week’s wages; a bar of chocolate twice that.
At a large communal table Sigursdottir ordered tapas for everybody. Dishes arrived in dribs and drabs, brought by a slender young waiter who seemed intimidated by the Marines, and with good reason.
“Ohhh, yeah,” said Milgrom, watching him walk away to fetch more food. “Look at that tight butt. I’d grab myself two handfuls of that and just tear.”
“Kind of skinny,” said Blunt. “I prefer a man with a bit of meat on him.”
“Like Master Chief Reynolds, you mean?”
“Will you shut the fuck up about Master Chief Reynolds?”
“I would, but he’s just so dreamy ,” Francis cooed, fluttering her eyelashes.
Blunt clouted her round the head. Francis just giggled.
“I like ’em skinny,” said Milgrom. “Less resistance with the skinny ones. You can really show ’em who’s in charge.” She wolf-whistled at the waiter. “Isn’t that right, gorgeous? I know what you want. You want me to slap you down on the ground and straddle you. Ride you ’til you’re worn to a nub. Am I right?”
The waiter smiled wanly, no doubt thinking of his tip. So to speak.
Dev sampled everything on offer. Battered lumps of fish. Fish in sauce. Fish roe. Greasy fish-tasting globs. Assorted types of shellfish and mollusc. Chunks of algae cut into shapes and cooked to resemble vegetables. Yet more fish.
Fortunately there was beer, to rinse the fishiness out of your mouth. Fermented-seaweed beer, to be precise, but it was close enough to the real thing – and a great deal less hazardous than double moonshine.
The drunker Milgrom got, the worse she behaved. She pawed the hapless waiter whenever he went by. She flirted crudely with a group of men at the adjacent table, who began by encouraging her but after a while got bored and started studiously ignoring her. She bellowed out dirty, but admittedly very funny, jokes. Stern looks from Sigursdottir would quieten her for a while, but then she would begin again.
Blunt, Francis and the other privates weren’t much better. They took the corporal’s rowdiness as a licence to vamp it up themselves.
Dev could see that Sigursdottir was cutting her troops some slack. They were on shore leave. They should be allowed to make the most of the down-time and fool around a little.
He feared, however, that things were going to get out of hand, and that it might happen faster than Sigursdottir realised.
He wasn’t sure what it was, but there was a mood hanging over Llyr. Something in the air. He sensed it without being able to put his finger on it. During the walk from the marina to the esplanade he had noticed furtive looks from the residents, a shiftiness in the presence of the Marines. People going about their daily business had stiffened as the team went by, relaxing when they were gone.
It had occurred to him that this could be how the settlers normally reacted around the military. There was an inherent tension, a simmering mistrust. Servicemen often had that effect on civilians.
What he was reminded of, however, was the way crooks acted whenever the police showed up. Even the most hardened criminals shied away from cops, doing their best to look innocent, which of course only served to make them look guilty. Dev had seen it a lot during his misspent youth. Law enforcers were like searchlights. You didn’t dare look at them directly. You lowered your gaze and turned away, waiting until their attention was no longer on you.
As far as he knew, Llyr was an ordinary town. Law-abiding. Everything above board here. So why were the residents behaving as though it wasn’t?
He could feel the tension deepening as the Marines got
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