Av was directing the militiamen in gathering the bodies and dragging them into the center of the yard. They’d be searched for any intelligence they might be carrying, but that would come later. For now, he just wanted an accurate count.

And if there’d been a crowd of live pirates, there was an equal crowd of dead ones. It had been some shindig out here in the dark while Dar was playing Douglas Fairbanks Junior in the kitchen. And they still had bodies to retrieve from the airship.

Martin was on his knees going through the dead captain’s pockets, looking to see who these people might be and what, if anything, they were up to. He looked up at Dar’s approach, noting the extra saber. That would be Henry’s doing. He wondered if Av had ever explained the traditions to the boy as he was teaching him to use the blades. Well, if not, then somebody would have to soon.

Meanwhile, he reached down and unbuckled the dead man’s pistol belt, working it out from beneath the body. He tossed it up to his son as he approached.

Dar nearly dropped both sabers as he fumbled to catch at the belt. Finally, he shouldered the Thompson and buckled the new leather belt around his waist, snugging it against his hips, lower down than the canvas belt he was already wearing. That made three of them. Cleaning the blade of his own blood against his shirt sleeve, he slid the more elaborate saber into the scabbard, lacing the one he’d been using clumsily through the hangers of the frog. He felt relieved when he could finally fill both hands with the submachine gun, though it sagged woefully in his tired arms.

“I guess there’s still a lot I’ve got to learn, isn’t there, Pop?” he asked.

Martin regarded him as calmly as he was able, for the boy was still leaking in an alarming number of places. He looked as though somebody had tossed him into a barrelful of saw blades and pushed it down a hill. “You’ll catch on, Dar,” he assured him.

“Pop?”

“Yes, Darnan,” Martin sighed. Green troops sometimes got runny mouths after their first engagements, and it was best to humor them if there were time.

“This guy, Pop,” Darnan cocked his head. “While we were fightin’, he called me Gruppe. What’s that all about?”

“He what?” Martin’s voice was sharp and urgent.

“He called me Gruppe. Like it was a name or some—”

But Martin’s attention was no longer on him. He was tearing at the dead man’s tunic, popping buttons and rending the heavy cloth. The undershirt beneath, he slashed with the dagger.

“Son of a pox ridden—!”

Av was leaning over his shoulder peering down at the tattoo now revealed upon the still chest. “I thought we killed alla these guys.”

Martin had both hands pressed to his forehead, cursing bitterly in a low monotone. “So did I,” he grated. “I wouldn’t have disappeared if I’d....” He paused to take a deep, shuddering breath. “So did I.”

“What?” Dar demanded, confused yet again. “Who is he?”

“Gott damn Listians!” Av growled. “Black Sun Society. Vrillians. Thulians.” He looked up at Dar. “They got lots of names, Dar, but they’s basically a bunch of bastards who think they’re some sort of master race, and that we lesser men stole their world from ‘em somehow. Got them an idee that New Victoria is the mother world they came from and that we lessers don’t belong here.”

Martin was still glaring down at the tattoo. Four stars crowned the circle of the Black Sun with its runes and crooked cross. He’d been a fairly senior member, then. Still outer circle, but probably ready for the deeper secrets and his passage to the inner circle. Wait! That meant that somebody higher up in the order was—

“Hey!” he called out, rage edging into his voice for the first time. “Which one of you militia monkeys is in charge here?”

“Yo!” one of the militiamen answered nervously. He was already some frazzled by the unexpected machinegun fire that had come altogether too damned close to his position out in the trees where it was supposed to have been safe. And now this scary guy who used to be Martal Palanna seemed to want something that he’d have to deliver. That did not bode well. “Here, Sir! Milo Watkins.”

“Strip the prisoners, Watkins!” Martin roared. “Naked to the waist! Every manjack of ‘em!”

One of the prisoners bolted from the line, making for the front gate as though his life depended on it. Dar raised the Thompson and leaned forward.

“Alive!” his father snapped.

Dar lowered his aim and ripped off a short burst, literally between several of the militia and other prisoners, all of whom were diving for cover. The figure somersaulted to the ground in a cloud of blood and bone. “Does he have to be able to walk?” Dar asked belatedly.

Av suppressed a chuckle. The boy had taken the pirate before he could raise his own weapon. Had an infantryman’s black sense of humor, too.

Lieutenant Jaeger gulped and ripped his own tunic open, bending over and hauling the neck of his undershirt down so that the crazy islanders could see that he bore no such tattoo.

The militia and prisoners were slowly regaining their feet, eyeing the young Palanna fearfully. Many of the militia had known Darnan his entire life, or had thought they did. They were now seeing him with new eyes. The prisoners saw only the bloody-handed man who’d cut down their commander — a man renowned with the blade.

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Martin waved Lieutenant Jaeger ahead with the muzzle of his Thompson, following behind, flanked by Dar and Av.

It was the bootsmann. He was struggling to draw something from beneath his tunic, but he was clumsy with shock and it had gotten fouled in the garment.

Dar started to reach down, but Av waved him clear. Instead, he stepped forward and caught at the struggling arm with a boot toe, forcing it aside before putting his weight on it, pinning it to the ground. Leaning to the side and canting his head, he edged the tunic aside with the front sight of the Thompson. Only then did he crouch down, drawing a deeper groan from the wounded man as his weight settled more firmly onto the hand. Peering more closely at the bulge, he nodded to himself, reaching out to unbutton two of the tunic buttons.

“I was afeered he was tryin’ to arm a grenade or something,” he said. “But it was just this.” He pulled a small, ugly pocket pistol clear and held it up.

“You, there, Krauthead,” Av demanded of Lieutenant Jaeger. “Slip your belt off and tie off his far leg before he drains out on us.”

He was already undoing the bootsmann’s belt and working it clear. Dar’s eight round burst had ruined both legs, and the pirate was bleeding like a hog in a slaughterhouse.

“He was in the kitchen with this one and the captain,” Dar told his father, motioning at the lieutenant with the muzzle of his own Thompson.

“Senior NCO,” his father replied, recognizing the man from his identification of the young lieutenant as ranking officer. “Bootsmann, I think, is the title, yes?”

The lieutenant nodded without turning from his work, tying the tourniquet around the bootsmann’s upper leg.

“Henry?” Martin turned, but Entigh had not yet reappeared. “Milo?”

“Yo,” the militia officer replied with even less enthusiasm than his last answer had borne.

“I don’t suppose Doc Singh is out in the trees there, is he?”

The officer shrugged uncomfortably. “No sir,” his voice cracked. “Didn’t think to bring him.”

Martin turned full on him, tilting his head as though he’d just caught a youngster about to poke a bobcat with a short stick. “You didn’t think that you might need a doctor at a battle?” he asked.

“Well, we wasn’t supposed ta be....” Watkins’ voice trailed off, his face flushing bright red. “Uhm... you want I should—?”

Martin glared.

“Yeah... uh, I’ll get on the radio... and... uh....” the militiaman gulped, turned, and started trotting towards the house.

“If this bastard dies because those fools didn’t think farther ahead than wandering down the trail with a rifle over their shoulders,” he told Av venomously, “I’m going to have to beat some heads in.”

Dar was thinking. He was pretty sure that Evie knew a good bit about rough and ready doctoring. This far out of town, any sort of accidents they’d have would be a handle it yourself proposition. Of course, it might have been Pascal did the doctoring, but— wait a minute....

“Pop?”

“Yes, Son,” Martin sighed.

“Shouldn’t there be a ship’s doctor somewhere in this mess?”

Martin straightened abruptly, smacking himself on the forehead. Of course. He hadn’t given it a thought. He wouldn’t trust the Listians’ doctor to work on one of his own under any circumstances. But one of their own?

The lieutenant was already looking at him expectantly.

“Your parole?” he asked the young officer.

The lieutenant nodded vigorously.

Martin chucked his head and the man was off across the yard, shouting for one of the other prisoners.

Belatedly, Martin turned to shout to the militia not to shoot him, though he needn’t have bothered. At this point, they were pretty much just standing around dumbly, wondering what would happen next.

One of the prisoners broke from the group and approached rapidly, exchanging words with the lieutenant, who cut left and headed for one of the rope ladders dangling from the airship.

“Oh, I don’t think I trust him that far,” Martin clucked his tongue. He motioned for Av to follow the man, since the bootsmann had stopped struggling and was lying quietly as he bled out.

“Sorry, Pop,” Dar apologized.

“What for?”

The ship’s doctor tried to hustle past them, but Martin stopped him with the barrel of the Thompson, muzzle pressed to his sternum. “Hemd,” he ordered.

The doctor scowled and opened his shirt defiantly. Black Sun. Only two stars, though. Small fry. He patted the man down just in case and then waved him to the bootsmann.

The doctor took a knee beside the wounded non com, muttering angrily. Martin stepped back.

“I didn’t mean to—” Dar tried to finish.

“Don’t, Dar,” Martin cautioned him. “Don’t second guess yourself. You stopped him with the tools you had and he’s alive. I don’t know what I might have done that was any different, and you were the one who acted in time. Let it go.”

“But if he dies—”

“What?” Martin asked flatly. “If he dies, what? He’s no friend of mine. He’s a murderous butcher who’s probably due a hundred times the pain you’ve inflicted on him. And if he dies of what you’ve done, the punishment is doubtless far less than he deserves.

“No,” he glared over toward the wounded man. “The only thing I’ll be upset about if he dies is the questions he won’t be able to answer.”

Dar felt a chill run through him at his father’s tone. It was coming to him that he didn’t really know his father much at all. It was coming to him that he didn’t really know anything much at all.

What’s more, the adrenalin rush he’d been running on for the past hour was wearing thin, and he could feel the lump in the pit of his stomach that told him the crash was coming. And something told him that this one was going to be a real doozy.

He thought of telling his father, but demurred. He didn’t want to show weakness. The old man’s respect was still too new and important for him to shrug it off so easily. He could tough it out a bit longer.

The lieutenant descended the ladder, juggling a large pack of some sort. He hit the ground running for the fallen bootsmann, and Martin gave ground to let the doctor work.

Meanwhile, the yard was filling up with militia, most of them wandering around aimlessly, poking into nooks and crannies to no apparent purpose.

“Watkins!” he shouted.

“Here!” the man called back from closer to the main house.

“You call for Doc Singh yet?”

“Wasn’t in!” Watkins called back. “I left a message with his missus.”

Well that was just fine. “Right! Howsabout you start taking command of this circus of yours and get something useful done?”

“Sir?” Watkins asked as he approached.

“I see,” Martin grumbled to himself. So that was the way it was. Alright, if they wanted him to be in command, he would be in command. They couldn’t say they hadn’t asked for it.

“What rank do you hold, exactly, Watkins?” he asked in an ominous tone of voice.

“Er...” Watkins gulped. “Captain. Sir.”

“Really? No, never mind. Listen. I want you to detail some men to take care of the animals. Farmers or ranchers, mind you, not clerks. Get those allox inside and milk them, feed the horses and the calves. Get somebody out there to slop the hogs before they start in eating each other. Understand?”

“Yessir!” Watkins more or less saluted and started to turn away.

“Did I say I was done with you?” Martin grated.

Watkins turned back towards him, face reddening.

“You got anything to write with? No? Then pay close attention, because you’re going to be held responsible for any orders I give you, whether it’s you who screws them up or the men you assign the tasks to. Got that?”

Watkins gulped again and nodded, his face falling. He was regretting the shenanigans that had gotten him his supposedly cushy rank and wondering who this guy he’d always thought was just another rancher really was.

“Good. Do not forget to leave a heavy contingent to guard the prisoners. Herd them into that northwest corner and pack ‘em in tight. All of ‘em, walking wounded as well. Any of them get fractious, put the lot of them down. Do you understand? Shoot to kill.

“Make sure that anybody you assign to that duty is capable of carrying it out. Make sure you warn the guards not to get too close.

“Assign somebody to gather the bodies of the pirates and line them up outside the wall, outside of view from any of the gates. I’d suggest the field out front next to the road where it swings east.

“They are to be thoroughly and carefully searched. Each and every one of them. Their effects are to be bagged, labeled, and brought to either me or Mr. Tall Pines. No trophies. No exceptions. Anybody who tries to high grade the least bauble will rue the day, you understand me, Watkins? Rue!”

Watkins gulped audibly and nodded.

“Gather up any gear they’ve got on them or that they may have dropped and put it into the back of Entigh’s truck. Label it with a grease pencil or something so we know which of them it came off of, but otherwise don’t mess with any of it.

“There are friendly casualties — they are to be left alone for the moment. Don’t go near them, and don’t tell Entigh where they are—”

“But—?”

“But me no buts!” Martin growled. “I’ll be the one who shows him where the friendlies are, you got that? Me.”

Watkins nodded silently.

“Now—”