"This was the usual thing," Hollard went on. "Sun People man and Earth Folk woman. She decided she didn't like him anymore, and he couldn't get it through his head she could tell him to get lost. Thought it was just a fight, until it came out at the Mast."

He thought he heard Alston's aide mutter "Scumbags" under her breath, but it wasn't loud enough to hear. His inner smile was wry; having Fiernan and clansmen from the charioteer tribes in the same unit was murder sometimes; they just didn't like each other and their customs were about as distinct as you could get… and neither always meshed with Americans, either, to put it mildly. A complete set of national stock-figures had grown up already, with the same underlying element of truth that most stereotypes had-to the Americans, the Fiernan seemed like good-natured, happy-go-lucky slobs, and to the Fiernan the American Eagle People were detail-obsessed control freaks with a serious pickle up their butts. And both thought the Sun People were homicidal maniacs with hair-trigger tempers-and lazy, to boot.

It would have been easier to have an all-Islander unit, like back during the Alban War; he wouldn't have had to waste so much time running elementary literacy classes. The problem there was that there just weren't enough Islanders; everyone was in the militia, of course, but that was for home defense and major wars declared by the Meeting. For that matter, things would have been a little simpler if the Marine expeditionary regiment was all-male, but that ran up against the same objection-not enough recruits-and of course there was the long term to think about. Alston certainly wouldn't have stood for that sort of precedent, or Martha Cofflin, or his sister, Kat, for that matter.

"That is a problem," Alston said, in her soft, drawling voice. "Those tribes, they've got a confirmed case of the virgin/whore complex."

"This gets it out of them," Hollard said grimly, as they came to an area behind C Barracks. "Or at least convinces them to keep it to themselves. Second offense and it's off to Inagua, or the hangman, depending on circumstances."

A young man stood shivering and naked before a table. His eyes flicked to the newcomers and grew wide as they saw Commodore Alston.

"Carry on, Lieutenant," Hollard said.

The Islander at the table was young, around twenty. His voice was stern but not unkindly as it went on, "You understand the nature of the offense and sentence of the court-marital, Private Llandaurth Witharaxsson?"

"Yes, sir," the recruit said.

The junior officer paused for a translation; Llandaurth nodded again and spoke in his own language. A corporal said, "He understands, sir. He says he took the Eagle People's salt and agreed to obey their laws. The woman wasn't his, and he did wrong. He's ready to face his punishment."

"You chose the gauntlet?"

The man straightened, his pale skin flushing against the tow color of his hair and an archipelago of freckles. "Llandaurth Witharaxson is no coward, to run from hurt," he said in slow, careful English.

The lieutenant nodded. "Good. And remember, Private Llandaurth, that your offense is not only against the law but against your comrade-to-arms… your oath-sworn shield-br… sister. In battle, you must each ward the other's life. What you did is as if you turned away in battle and left a comrade to the enemy." A pause. "Translate that, please."

The fixed look of endurance flickered into puzzlement for a second, then a slow nod.

"Sergeant, execute the sentence."

A drum began to beat, and the drummer fell in beside the prisoner. Llandaurth turned and began to walk in step with it, a pause between every step, toward an alleyway made of thirty-seven standing figures. All of them were women, all the women in his company; they had their rifle slings in their hands, buckle-end outermost. The first was a private with a black eye and a puffy swelling along the side of her face. She gripped the leather strap with both hands, whirled it around her head and struck. Brass and cowhide snapped into flesh; a bloody welt and gouged wound appeared across the man's back and buttocks. Another strike smacked into his shoulders. He grunted in involuntary reflex, cupped one hand over his genitals and the other to protect his eyes, and kept walking to the slow beat of the drum as the musician paced down beside him outside the gauntlet.

Hollard pursed his lips. Some of them are hitting almighty damned hard and fast, he thought. On the other hand, this is supposed to hurt bad. If the offense had been a little more serious-real injury to the victim, for instance, or an actual rape-the punishment would have been a noose.

Halfway down, the condemned man's grunts changed to hoarse cries, torn out past clenched teeth. Llandaurth went to one knee for a second, and the drummer marched in place. That meant extra blows as he staggered back to his feet. Three-quarters of the way, and his body and scalp were a mass of blood and welts, sheening crimson in the sunlight. The rifle slings were spraying drops of red now, and the man fell forward, crawling the last dozen paces like a crippled dog. The drum gave a final flourish and fell silent. Two troopers with a stretcher came forward, and a medic hurried to his side.

"Carry on, Lieutenant," Hollard said again, as they walked on past the dispersing crowd. One of the women who'd administered the punishment looked pale, and two others were helping her sit and put her head between her knees.

"Unpleasant but necessary," Alston murmured.

Swindapa nodded vigorously. "The Sun People don't know how to behave with a woman unless you kick them," she said. Grudgingly, she went on, "Some can learn from that."

"I've met Americans who could use the same treatment," Alston said, her full lips pressed together.

"We've given a few Americans the same treatment," Hollard said. "Now, this is our armory; every recruit is trained to use the repair tools."

When the inspection was finished, he led them into his own office, and an orderly brought glasses of fizzy sarsaparilla on a tray. The room was plain boards for the most part, with a window opening onto a porch and the main parade ground. Soon it would be sundown, time for everyone to fall in as the flag was lowered and then be trooped off to dinner.

"Very satisfactory, all in all," Alston said after a long moment's silence. "What's your appraisal of the training program as a whole, Major?"

Oh, Christ, now isn't that a question.

"Ma'am, it's going smoothly now. Geometric progression, of course-train one, he or she trains two, two become four, four become sixteen, and so forth. Right now we can turn out as many per year as the original plan called for and expand that on short notice."

"Good," Alston nodded. "And you're satisfied with your training cadre?"

"Fully satisfied now, ma'am. In fact… well, a lot of them have much more experience than I do-pre-Event experience, that is. I'm surprised I got this appointment."

"We're not cursed with a seniority system here, Captain, and you did very well in Alba." She paused, looking at him; he met eyes so black that you couldn't see the pupil. It was more than a little disconcerting.

"In a way," she went on, "pre-Event experience is worse than irrelevant here. Commandin' this sort of unit isn't much like drivin' tanks into Kuwait City." At Swindapa's raised brows she went on, "That was a war we had, a little before we came to this time." To Hollard: "In any case, I couldn't spare any of my Guard officers; they're needed for the ships. I thought you'd do well here, and you have. In fact, you've pretty well worked your way out of a job."

"And into another?" Hollard asked eagerly.

"Anxious for a fight?" Alston asked, her voice unaltered.

I must be nuts. Kathryn certainly thinks so. He remembered the battles of the Alban War well enough. The way his balls had tried to crawl back up into his gut as the enemy host came out of their dust-cloud. The light sparkling on their blades, the sound of their chant as they advanced and the rhythmic boom of weapons hammered on shields. The way a man screamed with an arrow through him. The wounded later, lying across the field like a lumpy carpet that twitched and writhed, calling for water, or their mothers. Kathryn limp on the medic's table, her leg a mass of blood around the wooden shaft. And the stink…