Papadapolous sucked in an angry breath, but this time Honor did raise her hand before he could speak.

“Major Papadapolous.” Her cool soprano wrenched him around to face her, and she smiled faintly. “Perhaps you aren’t aware that before joining the NPA, Major Isvarian was a Marine.” Papadapolous twitched in shock, and her smile grew. “In point of fact, he served in the Corps for almost fifteen years, completing his final tour as command sergeant major for the Marine detachment on Saganami Island.”

Papadapolous looked back at Isvarian and swallowed his hot retort. The Saganami Marines were chosen from the elite of the Corps. They made up the training and security detachments at the Naval Academy, serving as both examples and challenges for the midshipman who might one day aspire to command Marines, and they were there because they were the best. The very best.

“Major,” he said quietly, “I… apologize.” He met the older man’s red-rimmed eyes unflinchingly, and the NPA man slumped back into his chair.

“Oh, hell.” Isvarian waved a hand vaguely and flopped back into his chair. “Not your fault, Major. And I shouldn’t have popped off that way.” He rubbed his forehead and blinked wearily. “But all the same, you don’t have any idea what you’re getting into down there.”

“Perhaps not, Sir,” Papadapolous said, his voice much more level as he recognized the exhaustion and pain behind the NPA major’s swaying belligerence. “In fact, you’re right. I spoke without thinking. If you have any advice to offer, I would be most grateful to hear it, Major.”

“Well, all right, then.” Isvarian managed a tired, lop-sided grin. “The thing is, we don’t have any idea how many of those rifles are out there or what the nomads are planning to do with them. But you might want to bear this in mind, Major Papadapolous. We’ve fitted that thing with a standard butt stock and test-fired it. It’s got a kick you won’t believe, but Sharon Koenig was right—it’s also got an effective aimed range of somewhere over two hundred meters. It could use better sights, but a single hit will kill an unarmored human being at that range with no trouble at all.”

He leaned back in his chair and inhaled deeply.

“The problem is that your people can undoubtedly trash any of them you see, but you won’t see them unless they want you to. Not in the bush. A Medusan nomad could crawl across a pool table without your seeing him if he didn’t want you to. And while your body armor may protect you, it won’t protect any unarmored civilians.”

“Yes, Sir,” Papadapolous said even more quietly. “But is it really likely that we’ll see some sort of mass uprising?”

“We don’t know. Frankly, I doubt it, but that doesn’t mean we won’t. If it’s only a series of small-scale incidents, then my people can probably handle it, but someone’s been dumping mekoha out there by the air lorry load, as well as teaching them how to make guns. A major incident certainly isn’t out of the question. If it comes at one of the Delta city-states, they should be able to at least hold their walls until we can get help to them. If it comes at the off-world enclaves, though—” Isvarian shrugged tiredly. “Most of ’em are wide open, Major Papadapolous, and they don’t even know it. Their security people haven’t even brushed back the moss on the approaches to establish security or kill zones, and—” he smiled again, an achingly weary but genuine smile “—ain’t none of ’em Grunts like us.”