Mehrab had once examined him specifically because of this. Nothing was wrong.
 
According to Mehrab, this was somehow worse.

Boisrond disappeared into the washroom, returned with a mug, poured coffee from a pot that had probably been standing since afternoon and drank it black.

He lit another cigarette from the first before extinguishing the old one. Koldin watched.

“You're going to die like zhat.”

Boisrond sat opposite him.

“So are you.”

“Different.”

“How?”

“I don't know.”

“Then mind your business.”

Koldin did.

Defort arrived next. His communications satchel entered before the rest of him.

“Evening, gentlemen.”

Boisrond raised his cigarette.

Koldin said nothing.

Defort removed the Peshtulan submachine gun from his back and leaned it in the rack with exaggerated delicacy.

“Anybody miss me?”

“No,” Boisrond said.

“Koldin?”

“No.”

“Cruel.”

He began emptying his chest rig.

A field dressing. A small radio battery. Two magazines. A sandwich.

Boisrond stared.

“You carried that around all day?”

Defort looked at the sandwich.

“Emergency ration.”

“That has mustard on it.”

“Emergency mustard.”

Boisrond shook his head.

Defort bit into the sandwich.

Koldin had known Defort long enough that the clowning no longer required interpretation. It was simply atmospheric. The human came from The Green Reach and treated almost every inconvenience as material offered personally for his amusement. He complained about rain while standing in it. He argued with recorded announcements. He assigned names to pieces of communications equipment.

He also knew radio work with a seriousness that emerged only when needed.

Koldin had seen him stop joking so abruptly it felt like a physical change.

When signals failed, when men became separated, when artillery began landing and somebody had to make contact through noise and panic, Defort ceased being Defort-the-fool and became a pair of hands on a transmitter and a voice that would keep calling until somebody answered.

Then the moment passed and he became irritating again.

Defort ate the sandwich.

“How's your foot?”

Koldin looked at him.

“Fine.”

“You limped coming in.”

“No I didn't.”

“Little bit.”

Boisrond glanced over.

“What happened?”

“Koldin kicked a tax collector unconscious.”

Boisrond lowered his cigarette.

“A real tax collector?”

“No.”

“Then why call him that?”

“Because that's what he called himself.”

Boisrond nodded.

“Fair.”

Koldin lay back.

“Can we stop talking about him?”

Defort sat on the neighboring cot.

“No.”

The door opened. Mehrab entered.

The room became marginally quieter.

The other yinglet in Koldin's squad. His face almost always had an expression that often made people lower their voices around him without knowing why. His medical insignia remained sewn above one breast pocket. A canvas case hung from his shoulder.

He looked tired.

Not ordinary tired. Medical tired. The particular exhaustion of someone who had spent all day absorbing other people's fear in measured portions while pretending not to notice.

Defort held up the remaining half of his sandwich.

“Want some?”

“No.”

“Tiplod.”

“No.”

“Mustard.”

“No.”

“Your loss.”

Mehrab removed his medical case and set it carefully inside his locker.

Koldin raised one foot. Mehrab saw it immediately.

“What?”

“Nozhing.”

“You're holding your foot up.”

“Hit someone.”

Mehrab looked at Defort.

Defort nodded enthusiastically.

“Beautiful kick.”

Mehrab returned his attention to Koldin.