The battle in the Kemar System had let up for the time being. The Kemar Portal was under the Imperial Star Forces’ complete control. That was not to say they had driven out the enemy from all corners of the system. The enemy was lurking in certain sectors, awaiting their chance to counterattack.
The theater that was thought to possess especial war potential was Akadd. Akadd was a giant gas planet with a number of satellites, which were what made Kemar a munitions-centric star system boasting a concentration of factories and resource mining operations. The Star Forces had laid hold of the inner planets.
After securing a star, it was customary to set up mobile antimatter fuel factories. They also assembled repair ships, réboniac (food supply ships), and garymiac (medic ships) in orbit above each of the planets they secured.
The ships of Trample-Blitz Squadron 1 had moored alongside the repair ships to undergo servicing. While there was a pause in hostilities, it wasn’t yet safe enough to be setting up mobile base canteens. But there were over ten supply ships to serve as replacements, revolving around the second planet of the Kemar System, Menderess. Instead of goods and commodities, the supply ships (all Cetairh-class) were packed with restaurants, bars, fitness facilities, game halls, theaters, aquariums, museums, zoos, and other recreational facilities that could be established within cramped vessels. These supply ships were small models meant to accompany recon sub-fleets, so they were highly maneuverable, and had the same level of armaments as defense ships. In the event of an enemy attack, they could break away from the battlefield with the soldiers (sluggish after a few days off) still aboard.
One of those ships, the Batcetairh, had a peculiar interior design — it had been made a park. The five-story zocrh déür (garden deck) within the ship was 10 üésdagh long and 2 üésdagh wide. Three of the decks were further demarcated, but two weren’t. Trample-Blitz Squadron 1 had reserved Zocrh Déür Gona (Garden Deck 4), also known as the Üapaiss Gronile Bitymr (Lakeside Space) for the day.
“First,” said the Commandant, Kilo-Commander Atosryua, “a moment of silence for the soldiers, both enemy and allied, that fell in battle.”
Over two hundred soldiers lowered their heads, a solemn pall of silence enveloping the place. Atosryua was standing atop a slightly raised tier relative to the rest. It was more of a tiny mound than anything else, and that mound was covered by ticrebh (carpet grass), grass genetically engineered to be short and not to wither when tread upon. It also allowed for small flowers to bloom. The flowers would get crushed underfoot, but the grass was such that new flowers would bloom in a few dozen minutes’ time. The soldiers were also standing on that carpet of grass.
Garden Deck 4 was divided into the carpet grass section and the pond. The lawn was dotted sparsely with trees. The ceiling and walls projected imagery that gave them the illusion of standing on a vast lake shore under an endless blue sky. There were animals, too, and they were no illusions. The shrill and noisy birds stood out in particular — apparently, they were incapable of reading the room. One of these birds was chirping especially irksomely, dashing the mood.
“The moment of silence is now over,” she said, a little indignantly. But her next command was stated with majesty and dignity: “All hands, prepare for the toast.”
Between the pond and where the soldiers were standing lay dozens of flawless tables, each with cups and eighty-eight different types of beverage on offer. The soldiers briskly scattered to grab their cups and pour their preferred drinks. Next to Atosryua stood the top brass of the squadron, and they had their own tables prepared for them. Jint took a glass and poured himself some rose-colored rortecec (wyne).
A hand from beside him. It was Lafier.
“What do you wanna drink?” he asked, noticing the cup in her hand.
“I’d like it if you could cut caitecec (mead) with réltérh (apple brandy) for me.”
“Shouldn’t you at least be cutting apple brandy with mead?”
“I see your taste is lacking,” she replied, looking at him wonderingly. “That would be far too sweet.”
“You’re right. Forget I said anything.”
All Abhs, without exception, could handle their liquor and then some. The alcohol in their bloodstreams was systematically broken down. Jint’s body could hardly keep up. The Abhs around him were drinking quantities the sight of which made him queasy. Yet they never got drunk. Samson would call it a curse, and Jint had to wonder what the point of drinking the stuff even was for the Abh. Though the anti-Abh crowd claimed Abhs were just mimicking real human beings, Jint figured that if that were the case, they’d need to feign drunkenness.
Jint took her cup and made to pour her some mead.
“That’s not how you do it,” she stopped him. “You need to dip in the stirring rod.”
“Say what now?”
“Then you use it to stir the brandy. Everyone knows that.”
“For real?” Jint thought he’d adapted to Abh society, but he clearly still had a ways to go. “But then, there’s no reason to stir it, is there? Unless that’s what cutting is?”
“It’s in the flavor.”
“Ah.” He made the drink she ordered and handed it over.
Similar kerfuffles were occurring here and there, and the preparations for the toast took longer than he expected. It appeared there were more than a few who liked their drinks a certain way.
Atosryua had her apple cider-filled cup in hand soon enough, but she waited patiently for her subordinates to finish choosing.
“Preparations for the toast are complete, Commandant,” said Sobash, who was holding something green.
“Lend me your ears, my valiant soldiers,” she began. “Well, not that being valiant matters much today, but just take the compliment. Trample-Blitz Squadron 1 may be a valiant band of soldiers, but it doesn’t have any traditions to match, so we have the duty and right to create some. Today, a new page will be added to that ledger of traditions.”
Jint was listening to her speech while standing nearby.
“We have a lot of new officers, so allow me to throw light on Tradition Number One. At the banquets of Trample-Blitz Squadron 1, there is to be no saluting. That does not mean you may fail to pay your superiors, colleagues and subordinates due respect. And I shall invite any who are rude to me to my domain. I’ll prepare you a room between the cultivation ranch and the hydroponics.”
“What sort of rude behavior should we do in order to receive such a wonderful punishment?” asked somebody from among the soldiers.
“That you’ll have to come up with on your own. But let me inform you that that room was created as a prison cell. It’s a place of solitude, though I suppose that some of you may enjoy that.”
There were some groans, but they were somewhat amused groans.
“The next tradition: you may not play with your food. Occasionally, there are those who seem intent on treating the food without respect. It seems as though in some cultural spheres, smearing badhorh (creamsweets) all over someone is an act of significance. It may be some sort of religious notion, but in any case, I don’t understand the impulse. Of course, I’m not so uncultured as to immediately repudiate any cultural touchstone I can’t seem to grasp, but I, Lauïc, the Baroness of Febdash and the first-ever commanding officer of this squadron, hereby forbid it forevermore. If your religion requires you to throw food at someone, do it out of sight. Got it?”