Recruit - Jonathan Brazee (highly illogical behavior .txt) 📗

T-Rex was Lance Corporal Sylvester Harrington Smith Pulaski.  He was an immensely strong Marine, with broad shoulders that had to give the armorers nervous breakdowns when it came to fitting him. He had essentially no neck and seemingly little short arms, hence the “T-Rex” nickname.  He was also about the smartest Marine Ryck had met, with a broad knowledge on just about everything.  He spoke as if he was barely educated, but that didn’t fool anyone.

“Don’t need food there.  I’ll have my memories of the lovely Miss Sorada to fulfill me,” Sams said dramatically, his voice pitched higher than normal.

“Hope she was really worth it, when we all are out on the ville, getting some,” T-Rex replied.

“Oh, she was, she was.  Better than any D-town ho, that’s for sure.”

That brought a round of laughter.  Ryck was glad he wasn’t facing the same fate as Sams, but still, there was a degree of envy in him.  Getting laid while on a mission had a certain swashbuckling flair, something to tell the other grandpaps as they sat around the retirement home years from now.

Ryck took another bite of his bacon, looking around at the other Marines.  He’d been with the unit only a short time, but somehow, it seemed longer.  He felt like he fit in, as if this life was made for him.  This was a long way from the dusty fields of Prophesy, but sitting in the crew’s mess, light-years from the farm, it seemed as if it was destined.  He felt more at home than in the house where he’d been raised.

Not completely at home, though.  Two sailors took their trays to the next table and sat down, their connectors clearly visible on the backs of their shaved heads.  Unlike the other sailors, navigators, as these two were, and gunners never wore covers.  The interfaces they needed to connect to the cybercomps that kept the ship’s bubble whole and the ship on course, or in the case of the gunners, that enabled them to control the ship’s weapons systems, were surgically implanted into their brains through the back of their skulls.  The “cybos” generally kept to themselves, an elite among the rest of the crew.  They gave Ryck the creeps, though. The Marines also used biofaces, of course, but theirs were patches that were placed on the skin, not drilled through the skull.

Ryck tore his gaze off of their heads and speared his last piece of bacon, mushing it around his plate to mop up the last of his sauce.  He popped it in his mouth and contemplated going back for another serving.  There was nothing to stop him, nor would anyone even care, but he decided against it as a show of inner discipline.

Sergeant Piccalo-Tensing entered the mess decks, spied the Marines, and made a beeline to them.

“Shit, what’s PT got for us now?” Wan asked, quickly pushing more of his food into his mouth as if afraid he wouldn’t get the chance to finish.

“What’s up, Sergeant?” Pallas asked.

Corporal Pallas and Sergeant Piccalo-Tensing were both NCOs, but Pallas seemed more at home with the non-rates.  There seemed to be an underlying tension between the two men that Ryck didn’t understand.

“Word just came out, and I thought I would pass it to you.  We’re dropping out of bubble space at 1400.  At 1800, liberty is being called.  Vegas.”

There was a moment of silence before whoops of joy rang out, not just from the Marines, but from the sailors who had been sitting within earshot.  Vegas!  Some Marines might go through an entire enlistment without getting to any of the fabled four liberty ports of Vegas, Kukson, Ramp it Up, or Pattaya.

“Liberty brief will be at 1700 in the chapel.  And there will be an inspection.  No raggedly ass Marines will be allowed off the ship,” the squad leader said before turning around and leaving.

“My fucking grandmother!  Vegas!” one of the sailors said.

Ryck didn’t quite understand the reference of that, but he understood the tone of the sailor’s comment.

“Vegas!  This is going to be epic!” Sams said.

“What do you mean, there, brig rat?” T-Rex asked.

“No, no, I’ve got my brig time back on the Dirtball!” Sams protested.

“You sure?  Seems to me you’re not in the brig now because this ship doesn’t have one.  I think you’re restricted to the ship,” Corporal Pallas told him.

“No fucking way!  I gotta go see England,” Sams said, jumping up, half-eaten breakfast still covering his tray. 

He jammed the tray into the galley window and rushed off to see the staff sergeant, almost at the run.

“They really going to keep him on the ship?” Wan asked.

“Nah, they won’t, but it’s good to yank his chain.  He’s been bragging about nailing that miner so much, he needed to be taken down a notch,” T-Rex told him.

“That said,” Corporal Pallas added, “your civvies really need to pass muster for a place like Vegas.  I don’t know about you all, but I didn’t expect this, and I think I might need to hit the ship’s store for something better than my ripped t-shirt.”

Even on a combat mission, Marines always traveled with at least one set of civvies.  Ryck’s were brand new, so he thought they would be fine.  It wouldn’t hurt to check them, though.  No way he wanted to be delayed in getting off the ship.

Vegas!