33
“With an O2 level of six-point-nine percent, this is on the very edge of what can support un-augmented human life,” Captain Ferenz, the tank company commander told the Marines crowded into the ship’s aft galley. “That shouldn’t be a problem for you sappers and Raiders, but for the rest of us, that means being buttoned up for the duration. You’ll have supplemental breathing kits for emergency evacs.”
“I never thought to ask. How do you take a crap in that thing?” Rev whispered to Bundy.
As expected, the older Marine was laser-focused on the captain and the brief, and he ignored Rev.
“Really? If we’re there for a week, you’re going to fill that thing. The smell alone . . .”
This time Bundy turned and glared at him before looking forward again.
“Quit teasing him,” Tomiko said. “Just pay attention.”
“I really do want to know. Don’t you?”
“Later.”
“That is still low for you Raiders and sappers, but this ship has a pretty sweet acclimation chamber aboard, and you’ll be spending half of your time in it until we hit the planet,” the captain continued.
“The rest of you can use it if you want, but the sappers and Raiders have priority. If you commanders want to use it, hit up Gunny Graggs. Do not go to the ship’s crew yourself. Now, there are trace gasses that are toxic over the long term. They shouldn’t be a problem if everything goes according to the plan.”
“When has anything ever gone according to plan?” Tanu whispered.
“But to ensure that long-term medical issues are avoided, sappers and Raiders will be getting a nano upgrade, which will monitor the total intake. Uh . . . Chief, that’s tonight after chow, right?”
“Yes, sir,” the senior corpsman said. “At sickbay. I’ll contact the platoon sergeants with the time.”
“OK, then. Good. As far as temperatures in our AO go, they should range from a little above freezing at night to the low teens during the day. That’s Celsius.”
“What’s that in Fahrenheit?”
<Just over thirty-two degrees and into the sixties.>
The Perseus Union was metric for most measurements, but different planets within the union used either Fahrenheit or Celsius for temperatures. Rev had never gotten used to Celsius temps.
“Cool, but not cold. Our target is the major emitter, though, and that tends to make the local weather unstable. So, be ready for anything,” the captain continued. “Let me see . . . humidity averages around twenty percent this time of year, axial tilt is one-point-eight degrees . . . well, there’s a lot more here that I don’t have to go into right now. You should all have this. Take a look at it. The key limitation is the O2. It’ll be just as much an enemy as the Centaurs.”
The back partition into the galley kitchen opened up, and a waft of stomach-rumbling aromas rolled over the assembled Marines and sailors, causing every single head to turn. If evening chow was as good as the lunch they had when they got aboard, they were going to enjoy this.
“Maybe being aboard a froggy ship isn’t going to be that bad,” Tomiko said.
Rev was loyal to the Union and its Navy, but she had a point. As the ancient saying went, an army travels on its stomach.
“And I guess that’s our cue,” the captain said. “Commanders, meet me in my stateroom at, let’s say, nineteen-thirty. Tanks, go eat chow, then stand by for further word.”
“Mech! Platoon commanders, see me at nineteen hundred,” the mech company commander yelled out as the Marines started a rush to the line.
With almost three hundred Marines to be fed, no one wanted to be last.
* * *
“Hey, grab a sit-down,” Udu said as Rev, Tomiko, and Tanu were heading to where the Raiders were sitting in the back corner of the galley.
Marines normally ate with their units aboard ship, but Bundy, his buddy Dyce, Udu, and Fyr were sitting together among mostly mech Marines.
Rev hesitated. Being on the same ship as three of his and Tomiko’s posse was a welcomed coincidence, but their team was their team.
“Go ahead and eat with your buddies,” Tanu told the two of them. “If what that captain said was true, we’re going to be in pretty close quarters during the transit, and I’ll be sick of both of you before we even get there.”
“Eat me,” Tomiko said with a smile as she sat down.
Rev was right behind her.
“Miko, Rev, have you met Dyce?” Udu asked, ever the social butterfly of their group.
“We met back at Nguyen,” Dyce said, extending a hand. “Raiders. Much respect.”
Dyce had said the same thing when they first met. To Rev, a Raider was just a fellow Marine. He felt a little weird that this guy seemed to put them on some sort of pedestal. But he was a good-enough seeming guy, and if Bundy liked him, that was good enough for Rev.
“That kind of sucks for you guys,” Fyr said. “I wouldn’t want to be stuck inside some environmental chamber for twelve hours a day.”
“Kind of sucks to be you guys,” Tomiko said. “I mean, if you get your armor breached, you can’t breathe, right?”
“We can breathe. Just might pass out from hypoxia. And that’s why we’re getting breathing packs. But what are the chances that the Doretha gets breached and Sergeant K’Adair and I are still kicking and needing to breathe?” Bundy asked with a laugh.
He and Dyce bumped fists. A Marine tank was a powerful piece of machinery, capable of taking out a Centaur on its own. Not favored to do so, but capable. However, there tended to be two outcomes for tanks. Survival or destruction. Not much middle ground where the tank itself was taken out, but the two Marines inside were left alive.
Rev didn’t even understand why there were Marines inside the tanks. They could be entirely automatic, run by battle AIs, but in test after test, manned tanks had a 4 percent better chance of fulfilling the mission than the automated versions. Four percent didn’t seem like much to Rev when there were two Marines with their lives on the line.
He’d asked Bundy about that once, but he was shut down so hard he never brought it up again.
“Hey, you never did answer me. If you’re going to be inside your tank for a week, how do you shit? There’s no room for a head in there, right?” Rev asked.
“We get a tube stuck up our ass,” Bundy said.
Rev looked at him in surprise. That didn’t sound very . . . comfortable?
“No shit?”
“With a tube up our asses, yes, shit.” He made a raspberry and mimicked something moving down a tube.
“Damn! That’s freaky. I don’t know if I could do that.”
“You are so gullible, Rev,” Fyr said, laughing. “Biodegraders. We wear diapers with superbacteria that eat our shit up. A big dump, and five minutes later, all nice and clean. Same as for tanks.”
Rev wasn’t sure who to believe, but Bundy was trying to hold back a laugh.
“Eat me,” Rev said with a scowl.
“Come on, guys. No shit talk when we’ve got this primo chow,” Tomiko said.
Good point.
Rev looked at his plate. He wasn’t sure what it was. Some sort of protein with a purplish-brown sauce, veggies, and a fluffy something that looked like basic mashed potatoes, but with a slightly different texture. And the smell was enough to start his mouth watering. He took a small bite, and while it was weird, both in taste and texture, he sure liked it. He shoveled a bigger forkful into his mouth.
“Damn, these froggys sure can dial up the chow. Why don’t we have the same programs?” Udu asked between bites.
“Maybe proprietary,” Bundy said.
Proprietary or not, Rev was going to have to see about getting some of these programs.
“What is this dish called? Did anyone see it?”
“Yeah, but it was in French. Ask your AI,” Dyce said.
<Bœuf Bourgignon,> his AI said without Rev asking, which took him by surprise.
He’d left his AI awake to record the brief and had forgotten to put it back to sleep, but this was the first time it had ever volunteered information like this.
“Are you still at twenty-five percent?”
<Yes, I am.>
From what he understood, a twenty-five percent PQ shouldn’t allow for something like that. He made a mental note to look into it.
“Beef borgon-something or other,” Fyr said.
“Bourgignon,” Bundy added. “Some famous froggy dish.”
“We’re eating frog? Real frog?” Udu asked, looking at her dish in obvious distaste.
“No. Froggy, as in someone from the Hegemony,” Bundy said.
“Why do we call them that?” Rev asked, hoping that his AI wouldn’t kick in and answer.
“I don’t know. I think it’s an old term for the Napoleonic Empire on Old Earth, and the Hegemony was born in the French Diaspora,” Bundy said.
His eyes got that faraway look of someone consulting their AI, and then he said, “Not quite. Right country, but before Napoleon. Supposedly because the French ate frog legs, so you were almost right there, Udu.”
“Fucking gross,” she said, poking at her food.
“What, like you care? This isn’t real beef, either. Just the same protein base that’s programmed to look and taste like it,” Fyr said, giving her a light punch to the arm.
She slapped his arm away.
“Well, all I know is that this shit’s delicious,” Rev said, taking another mouthful. “And we better eat up. You remember Senior Drill Instructor Howland. ‘Always sleep when you can, eat when you can, and shit when you can ’cause you never know when you’ll get the next opportunity,’” Rev said, imitating Howland’s gravelly voice.
“Probably the best advice we ever got at boot camp,” Bundy said as he tucked into his chow. “Well, that and don’t shit in a tank.”