Free Tom Paine Maru - Special Author's Edition by L. Neil Smith

Almost a real name.”
     
    It was something to be proud of, after all.
     
    Lucille whitened, muttered in a grim, low voice, “Sweet Lysander Spooner’s baby buggy bumpers, what kind of a sick, twisted, rotten culture—”
     
    “Not in front of company, Cilly.”
     
    “ Don’t call me Cilly!”
     
    The big man laughed hugely, patted Lucille on the head, tousling her hair. “Corporal O’Thraight, I’m Geoff Couper, and this impolitic and violent young female has already introduced herself, I believe. I take no responsibility—nor does anybody else, including herse— Whoops!”
     
    As good as Lucille was, Couper was blindingly better, casually blocking her intended sidekick to the belly with an iron forearm, then seizing her extended foot. He held it for a moment as if contemplating twisting it off, then released her with a little push so suddenly that she had to hop for balance. Tension, half a second’s pause, then they laughed. It was like watching a pair of giant mountain predators at play.
     
    Self-consciously, I gathered up the tatters of my uniform, along with what little of my dignity was left. I put the pants on, then the jacket, both wet. While Couper continued sparring with Lucille on a verbal level, I hesitated with the robe they had given me, folding it over my arm. Then, changing my mind, I sought privacy behind a bush, for some reason of irrational modesty. I removed the sodden clothing again.
     
    This was my first real chance to examine the hooded garment. The outer shell was about right for what one might laughingly call the technology of Sca, but it was a deception. I should have noticed it at once. That rough-woven fabric next to my much-abused skin would have hurt. But the robe was lined with the same odd material that was still wrapped around my game leg. Except the silvery-gray stuff was buffed up into a velvety nap, the surface noticeably warmer than the night air.
     
    The front edge of the robe slipped between my exploring fingers. I felt a cylindrical lump sewn into the hem. Examining it, I squeezed an end. Instantly the lining cooled to the touch. Dew began to condense, running off in tiny diamond droplets. Frost started to form. It took several tries, twisting, pinching, before the lining began to dry again.
     
    Who were these people, anyway?
     
    -2-
     
     
     
    “Who are you people, anyway?” I demanded as I emerged from the semi-privacy of my dressing shrub, uniform draped over my robe-covered arm.
     
    “There you are, Corporal,” Couper was massaging the leg of one of the draft animals, “For a moment there, I thought you’d decided to go AWOL on us. I guess we didn’t finish the introductions after all, did we?”
     
    Lucille was not in sight.
     
    Couper turned to the last of his traveling companions, a portly, gnomish individual, robe open and hood thrown back. He had a broad face, featuring black bushy sideburns that merged at the bottom of his chin.
     
    Couper put his big hands on our shoulders, “Corporal, say hello to Owen Rogers, our weapons tech. Rog, this is Armorer-Corporal Whitey O’Thraight.”
     
    Rogers raised a skeptical eyebrow at my title, as if he had just been introduced to a genuine flint-knapping savage. He nodded civilly enough, then went back to tinkering with one of the group’s incredibly small, impressively potent handweapons. This had wiped out a hundred cavalry? I opened my mouth to speak, but Couper went right on without me.
     
    “I suppose that I ought to add that Owen is also our expedition praxeologist,” he observed, “A very busy citizen indeed, our Mr. Rogers.”
     
    “Don’t call me a citizen, Coup,” Rogers replied in a voice higher, more nasal, than I had expected, “I’m too tired to undertake a duel tonight.”
     
    Rogers took a stiff paper packet from his robe, extracting what appeared to be thin brown twig. With his thumb, he flicked a small mechanical fire-starter, placed the twig in his mouth, lit the end,