He launches himself across the table and soon we're a muddle of fists and elbows on the ground. He's big, but I flip him down and pound his nose with my bad hand till Eo's father and Kieran pull me off. Uncle Narol spits at me. It's more blood and swill than anything else. Then we're drinking again at opposite ends of the table. My mother rolls her eyes. "He's just bitter he didn't do a bloodydamn thing to get the Laurel. Shown up is all," Loran says of his father. "Bloodydamn coward wouldn't know how to win the Laurel if it landed in his lap," I say, scowling. Eo's father pats me on the head and sees his daughter fixing my burned hand under the table. I slip my gloves back on. He winks at me. Eo's figured out the fuss about the Laurel by the time the Tinpots arrive, but she's not excited as I'd hoped she'd be. She twists her skirts in her hands and smiles at me. But her smiles are more like grimaces. I don't understand why she's so apprehensive. None of the other clans are. Many come to pay their respects; all of the Helldivers do, except Dago. He's sitting at a group of shiny Gamma tables—the only ones with more food than swill—smoking down a burner. "Can't wait for the sod to be eating regular rations," Loran chuckles. "Dago's never tasted peasant fare before." "Yet somehow he's thinner than a woman," Kieran adds. I laugh along with Loran and push a meager piece of bread to Eo. "Cheer up," I tell her. "This is a night for celebrating." "I'm not hungry," she replies. "Not even if the bread has cinnamon on it?" Soon it will. She gives me that half smile, as if she knows something I do not. At twelve, a coterie of Tinpots descend in gravBoots from the Pot. Their armor is shoddy and stained. Most are boys or old men retired from Earth's wars. But that's not what matters. They carry their thumpers and scorchers in buckled holsters. I've never seen either weapon used. There's no need. They've got the air, the food, the port. We haven't a scorcher to shoot. Not that Eo wouldn't like to steal one. The muscle in her jaw flexes as she watches the Tinpots float in their gravBoots, now joined by MineMagistrate, Timony cu Podginus, a minute copper-haired man of the Pennies (Copper to be technic). "Notice, notice. Grubby Rusters!" Ugly Dan calls. Silence falls over the festivities as they float above us. Magistrate Podginus's gravBoots are substandard things, so he wobbles in the air like a geriatric. More Tinpots descend on a gravLift as Podginus splays open his small, manicured hands.
"Fellow pioneers, how wonderful it is to see your celebrations. I must confess," he titters, "I have a fondness for the rustic nature of your happiness. Simple drink. Simple fare. Simple dance. Oh, what fine souls you have to be so entertained. Why, I wish I were so entertained. I cannot even find pleasure off-planet in a Pink brothel after a meal of fine ham and pineapple tart these days! How sad for me! How your souls are spoiled. If only I could be like you. But my Color is my Color, and I am cursed as a Copper to live a tedious life of data, bureaucracy, and management." He clucks his tongue and his copper curls bounce as his gravBoots shift. "But to the matter: All Quotas have been met, save by Mu and Chi. As such, they will receive no beefs, milks, spices, hygienics, comforts, or dental aid this month. Oats and substantials only. You understand that the ships from Earth orbit can only bring so many supplies to the colonies. Valuable resources! And we must give them to those who perform. Perhaps next quarter, Mu and Chi, you will dally less!" Mu and Chi lost a dozen men in a gas explosion like the one Uncle Narol feared. They did not dally. They died. He prattles on awhile before coming to the real matter. He produces the Laurel and holds it in the air, pinched between his fingers. It's painted in fake gold, but the small branch sparkles nonetheless. Loran nudges me. Uncle Narol scowls. I lean back, conscious of the eyes. The young take their cues from me. The children adore all Helldivers. But the older eyes watch me too, just as Eo always says. I'm their pride, their golden son. Now I'll show them how a real man acts. I won't jump up and down in victory. I'll just smile and nod. "And it becomes my distinct honor to, on behalf of the ArchGovernor of Mars, Nero au Augustus, to award the Laurel of productivity and monthly excellence and triumphant fortitude and obedience, sacrifice, and …" Gamma gets the Laurel. And we don't.