It was the last night of leave at Madame Wimba’s Watering Hole, and the boys and girls of the 3rd Pathfinder’s were making the most of it. Which in this case boiled down to getting as blind drunk as quickly as possible, something for which Shon Tooms was particular well-suited. The great advantage of being a twiggy young sot half the size of the average trooper was that he could get trashed at twice the normal rate, and for much cheaper, too. Tooms tipped back his gallon jug of watered rum and sucked at the dregs like a man perishing of thirst in the desert. He could almost feel the high buzz that would lift him clear of his earthly cares and worries, erase the constant, nagging fear that he felt before every mission.

“Steady on there, kid,” chided Cooly, the heavyset Sierran clapping him fondly on the back. This caused Tooms to splutter and choke, wasting most of his drink down the front of his shirt, “What’s the hurry? We’ve a long night ahead of us yet. Nobody’s leaving till old sourface rears his bald head.”

“Would it really matter if I heard him out sober or not? Orders is orders,” Tooms said crossly, annoyed at being spoken down to like a child. He’d done his bid like all of the rest, hadn’t he? He’d faced down the silent hordes of Amits with nothing but a scream on his lips and the splintered club of a backfired musket. Surely they could afford him a measure of respect once in a while?

“Ye’ll want a clear head going into this, Tooms,” Pretty Boy Doyd leered over the rim of his mug, the sight of his disfigured face enough to clear Tooms’ head, “Or ain’t you heard what happened to the last lot what signed on wiv him? Rene and Jensen and all the rest of our newly minted heroes. Hah!”

Doyd raised his mug in salute to the list names carved on the corkwood board behind the counter, where the overweight and eponymous owner of the bar lounged like a slug in its favorite cabbage patch. There were several new additions at the bottom of the list.

Tooms tried his best not to imagine whose initials would be up there this time next month, but it proved impossible. It was always the same after every operation. More names on the wall. More empty barstools. He looked over to where Lethway should have been, feet on the table and lounging back on the rear legs of his chair in that roguish way of his. Of all his fallen brothers Tooms felt his loss most keenly; Lethway was the only person that could truly calm Doyd's simmering rage.

“They may have gone on into the green,” Harmer said, the ebony-skinned sharpshooter bristling at Doyd’s tasteless remark, “But there ain’t no call to be making light of our friends.”

Pretty Boy levelled his infamous scowl at her, the shiny mottled burns that had earned the man his grim sobriquet contorting like a strip of boiled leather. Doyd was the senior veteran among the fifteen pathfinders gathered in the saloon, one of the handful who had lived through the Scouring of Assail. There a face full of Amit acid had burned away all pleasant aspects of his personality, leaving only a bitter hull of a man who clung on to life more out of sheer spitefulness than anything else. But those same scars which rendered him hideous also lent weight to his words. So when he spoke in that wheedling whine of his, every one of them listened:

“They was my friends too, girlie. All’s I’m saying is, they should’ve known better than to offer themselves up for another one of Command’s cunning schemes. And for what? Jus so’s that upper crust careerist can pin another bit of pot metal on his chest?”

“There’s a rumor going round that he was saved by divine intervention,” murmured Leming, the bespectacled scholar laying aside his unabridged copy of the Log of the Voidtrekkers, “They say he beheld the hand of the gods themselves reach down and deliver him from certain death.”

“Yea verily,” Pretty Boy mockingly intoned, holding up three fingers to form the sign of the trimada, “I declare that to be a crock of shit.”

“Your usual blaspheming aside,” Leming said with offended dignity, “I myself am intrigued by Deschane’s account. He never struck me as a particularly devout member of the Chaplainage. And yet I often find in the written accounts that it is often the skeptics and unbelievers who serve as the pawns of the powers that be. There’s a sense of cosmic irony in that, methinks.”

Stolen story; please report.

“I heard they gave the bleeder a ceremony last week,” said Beans in between mouthfuls of fried cricket and soy, “Red carpet, reporters, the works. Even read his article on the front page of the Victory Liner—”

“Now see, that’s how I know you’re lying,” Cooly nervously jibed, the affable giant making a brave attempt at changing the subject, “You can't hardly spell your own name, Beans, let alone read that rag of a paper.”

Beans’ mouth was too crammed full of food to allow for easy speech, so he let Cooly know what he thought of that by lifting up his rump and letting out a derisive fart. Those of the pathfinders who hadn’t yet passed out swore, pinching their noses shut.

“Goddammit Beans. Did you really have to?”

“You’re a disgusting little gasbag, Baow.”

That might’ve been the end of the matter right then and there, if Tooms hadn’t let his fool mouth run ahead of him, propelled onward by a bellyful of liquid courage:

“I dunno about the rest of you, but I knows what I signed on for when I took me oath to ship and crew. Deschane’s an ornery son of a bitch, but he’s a proper officer. I intend to hear him out.”

A shaggy pile of rags in the corner of the saloon stirred as Greymoss woke from his perennial slumber long enough to say:

“Sollem’s a soldier. Held the line at Assail, you ‘member? Ho-hum, burr-aye.”

The bog man concluded his assessment with a series of sonorous grunts before going back to the business of dreaming.

“Course I flipping remember, you ignorant savage!” Pretty Boy seethed, “I was there, wasn’t I? But obviously the man has cracked since then.”

Some of the pathfinders grumbled their agreement. Pretty Boy turned his ire upon Tooms and vented:

“As for you! So, you know what you’re in for, is that right? That’s mighty rich coming from a pipsqueak who’s only ever been good at dodging the worst of the fighting.”

Tooms was on his feet before he knew it, a carving knife held tight in his fist, his heartbeat pounding behind his ears.

“Come again?” he roared at Pretty Boy, though with the marked size difference between them it was more like yapping than anything else, “Ain’t nobody calls me a coward and gets away with it!”

Harmer’s plaits waved as she shook her head, saying: “That was a low blow even for you, Doyd. It’s not Tooms’ fault that he’s so lucky.”

“It’s more than just luck,” Pretty Boy said, putting salt in the wound, “It’s damn near uncanny. How many patrols has he come back from now all by his lonesome self, and not a scratch on him?”

“Why, I oughtta—”

Tooms lunged across the rough-hewn table at him, feet scattering plates as he went for the burned man. But Cooly was nimble for a man his size and wrapped a beefy arm around Tooms’ waist, holding him back without much effort on his part. All Tooms could do was fling curses and cutlery at the laughing Doyd, who kept egging him on:

“C’mere you runt, I’ll give you something to think about! You and that prig Deschane are exactly alike! When the chips are down and rest of us are sucking mud six feet under, where are you? Eh? Where are you?”

“I’m right here, Doyd,” said a voice that turned the blood in their veins into ice water. The double doors at the entrance of the saloon swung on their hinges and Deschane limped in. The navigator looked to be in the absolute worst state Tooms had ever seen him in, head and neck plastered in pus-stained gauze, yet still he commanded the same air of unshakeable self-assurance that defined him as an officer. Heels clicked together as everyone sprung to stiff, shivering attention. All except for Doyd, who stood openly glaring at Deschane.

Tooms climbed off the table and awkwardly straightened up. Deschane eyed the carving knife the pathfinder was trying to hide behind his back and asked:

“Were you planning to use that on anyone, Tooms?”

“No sir,” Tooms swallowed, “Just meant to carve up some fried cricket for the squad.”

Deschane turned to Pretty Boy: “And you? Is there something you want to tell me?”

The two men locked eyes, their unblinking stares conveying a plethora of meanings, none of them agreeable. Tooms saw Pretty Boy’s lips writhe as he muttered something under his breath.

“What’s that? Speak up, man!” Deschane said sharply.

“Permission to speak freely?” Pretty Boy Doyd, forgoing the salute in an act of deliberate provocation.

“Granted.”

“Good. Here’s the score: I think you’re a rancid cunt,” Pretty Boy said, sucking contemplatively at his front teeth, “Even worse than that, I think you’re an incompetent who got twenty good men kilt for no good reason. I only came here tonight to say it to your face, and because that juicy girl of yours done axed me nicely. Speaking of which, where’s that fine piece of tail anyhow?” said Pretty Boy, with an insolent peek over Deschane’s shoulder.

“Corporal Ven is outside keeping watch,” Deschane replied, taking a step towards Pretty Boy, “But don’t worry. She’ll come in later to scrape up what’s left of you when I’m done.”

And here we go, Tooms thought glumly, moments before the two men tore into each other.