“Canadian,” Bermont said.

Savoy’s eyes widened in recognition. “Ah. Good to have you on board.”

“Good to be here.”

The pilots behind them roared again, laughing at something, and broke up the conversation. Bermont shifted his attention to check them out. The Archangels were infamous, possibly the most well-known faces in the Confed. The government had used them as poster boys, recruiting tools, and general all-around hero types in order to keep morale up during the war. A lot of troops Bermont knew didn’t really like them much, figuring they were all show and no go. Their list of battle honors pretty much put paid to that idea, however.

Bermont didn’t have the pedigree to match up with them, but he didn’t want reporters shoving cameras up his ass while he took a dump, either. He’d served with the Canadian Joint Task Force 2 before the War Act instituted the Confederation between the United States, Canada, and Mexico. After the Confederation, JTF2 remained viable for a few years, while the armed forces spent more time fighting than worrying about who went where and in what.

Later, when all the old spec ops units got re-prioritized after the war, he’d been offered a slot on the Odyssey. He’d been leery of the offer at first, until he was briefed on the types they were calling up for the “security” complement of the starship.

Actual shipboard security was being managed by the marines, which was what he’d expected, of course, but the majority of the ground-based military presence on the ship was actually drawn from all the old “snake-eater” groups. He’d recognized a lot of the names on that list and had signed up without another thought.

His superior, Col. Jackson Neill, had told him that someone had decided it’d be a bright idea if the military people on the ship were already trained in hostile environments and survival techniques beyond the norm.

Bermont figured it was a load of crap himself. After all, even if they did find themselves in an alien world where they could breathe, what were the odds that the snakes there would be edible?

But what was a special operations trooper to do in a postwar world? Apparently, the Powers That Be thought there might be some use for a few of them, eating alien snakes, if that’s what it took.

Bermont shrugged and leaned back, smiling to himself.

Weston watched the screens carefully as the crew guided the Odyssey into the L4 Trojan point, its powerful navigation beams shouldering aside the larger nickel-iron rocks and sending shudders through the ship as it slowed. He checked off a point in his journal and noted the success of the beams under full-load stress.

“All right, Waters…”

“Sir,” Waters said, turning to the captain.

“Power up the primary weapons array.”

“Sir?”

“You heard me.”

“Aye, sir.”

Weston understood the man’s hesitation; ironclad treaties existed concerning the firing of weapons anywhere even close to Earth space. Those treaties didn’t extend past the orbit of Mars, however, so Weston fully intended to see how well the systems were integrated into the Odyssey’s infrastructure.