“Okay, look at it from my side,” the first sergeant said. “Say that you’re looking at this from the outside in. What would you do?”
“Give him a class in basic barracks courtesy comes to mind,” Berg said. “Other than that… I haven’t really thought about it.”
“I have,” Powell said. “But I want you to.”
“Blanket party?” Berg asked, chuckling. “Sorry, just wishing.”
“You’re also not thinking,” the first sergeant said sternly. “I gave you a task. Complete it. You have two NCOs that are not getting along. One of them, frankly, is not getting along with any of the other members of the company but he’s particularly not getting along with one. If you get those two integrated, you are fairly assured that you can integrate the problem NCO into the company. How do you integrate those NCOs?”
“God, Top,” Berg said, setting down his brush. “You want me to get to be friends with that little Fl…”
“Let’s lose the racial slurs, Sergeant Bergstresser,” Powell growled.
“Okay, but I still can’t believe you’re serious, First Sergeant Powell,” Eric replied. “Portana is the most annoying human being I’ve ever met!”
“Know anything about him?” the first sergeant asked. “I mean, he’s in the bunk above yours.”
“I can’t talk to him over that damned salsa,” Berg said. “The answer, to be clear First Sergeant, is no, I do not know anything about Sergeant Portana except that he is annoying.”
“Hmmm…” Powell said, nodding. “Sergeant Bergstresser, I’m assigning you an additional duty. I’m aware that you’ve had the basic armorer’s initialization during Qual Course. Sergeant Portana, despite what I have truly determined to be significant and efficient actions on his part, is falling behind in suit fitting and maintenance. In part because we’re changing over to the Mark Six line and most of them weren’t fitted prior to scramble. You are hereby assigned as assistant armorer for the time being. Report to Sergeant Portana as soon as you rerack your suit.”
“You hate me, don’t you?” Eric said.
“No, actually,” Powell said, straightening up. “I see a lot of promise in you, Two-Gun. You’ve got the makings of a damned fine NCO. Hell, you’ve got the makings of a damned fine officer. But one thing you haven’t learned, in part because you haven’t been in the Corps for any time at all, is that you have to learn to work with people you despise. And that’s just one of the many things that make being in the Corps such a daily joy. This is your period of training on that subject. Get to it.”
“Hey, Two-Gun,” Miriam said happily.
“Hello, Miss Moon,” Eric replied, far less happily.
“Whatcha doin’?”
“Headed to the armory,” Eric replied.
“You don’t look happy,” Miriam said, frowning. “What’s wrong with the armor… Oh, I heard you and the armorer don’t get al…” She stopped and looked around. “Did you just say something?”
“I said I was going to the armory,” Eric replied cautiously.
“Nothing about t-junctions or something?” Miriam asked.
“Nooo,” Berg said. “What’s a t-junct… ? Wait, that’s a particle junction in the—”
“Whatever,” Miriam said. “You have to go to the armory. And I need… I think I need to go lie down.”
“Okay,” Eric said as the linguist walked away rapidly. “You going to be okay?”
“Fine,” Miriam said, stepping over a threshold and closing the hatch. “Fin…”
“Whew,” the linguist said, leaning against the bulkhead. “That was close.”
“…seven point two times ten to the minus twenty-one seconds and three zero nine six point nine million electron volts per square of field velocity constant. The second-smallest stationary energy state of the charm and anti-charm flavor particle to interact at the t-junction annihilation/creation region will…” the voice whispered.
It wasn’t a stored mem. Those descended like icy cold data you already “knew.” This was something different. The only thing she could figure was it was her implant on the fritz. But going to Dr. Chet with that might actually mean that maniac would crack her cranial cavity. And she’d much rather be in a ground-side hospital for that. Preferably with someone less… inquisitive than Dr. Chet doing the cracking.
“Okay,” she said, just as a crewman rounded the corner. “No more talking about the voices.”
“Ma’am?” the seaman replied. “Are you okay?”
“I’m fine,” Miriam said sunnily. “How are you today?”
“Just fine, ma’am,” the crewman said, opening the hatch.
“Have a nice day,” Miriam said, smiling at him until the hatch closed. “And especially no more talking about it in the corridors. Shut up! I don’t know what any of that is!”
8
“You godda be pocking kidding me.”
Berg had reported to the armorer, as ordered. He was a Marine. You got an order and you said “Aye, aye” and carried it out to the best of your ability.
Portana, for his part, had apparently been briefed. And, for once, he’d acted like a Marine. He’d set Berg to work refitting the gun mounts. Part of what had held Portana up was that the Mark Six suit had a different traverse/aim system than the Mark Five. Besides having to be refitted, all of the guns for the suits had to have a new mount installed. It was easy if tedious work and Berg had to admit that it was about his level of knowledge. If he’d had to fit one of the suits by himself he’d have been at it all day and probably gotten it wrong.
But it didn’t mean they were getting buddy-buddy. Portana had given him the task and left him to it. Berg, for his part, became inured to hours of mindless refitting and zero conversation. He also was getting inured to Filipino salsa. Portana, as was his right, played it constantly in the armory. The same ten songs, over and over. If Berg ever met the whiny bitch who was singing he was going to give her a piece of his mind.
Berg didn’t even look up at the curse from the armorer. He just continued unscrewing the mount from Corwin’s gun; the new mount ready to be installed sat on the floor by his side.
“Modderpocker,” the armorer continued. “T’ere is no pocking way I can get t’at done!”
“What’s up?” Berg asked. Other than a ritual “good morning” and “good afternoon” it was the first time he’d addressed Portana in three days.
“Neber min’,” Portana said nervously.
“That sounds ominous.” Berg looked over at him. The armorer was chewing his lip.
“Pock,” Portana said, shaking his head. “I pock up. Pig time.”
“How?” Berg asked, seriously.
“I been habing problem wit’ t’e suits,” Portana said. “Feedback circuit goin’ ape-maulk.”
“I’ve heard the scuttlebutt,” Berg said. “The guys are saying they can’t hit chither with them.”
“T’ere’s a software upgra’,” Portana said, shaking his head. “I missed it. Was in a main’nance message. We so busy I jus’ pocking miss it! Now ebery pocking suit habe to be updated an’ t’en it habe to be recalibrated!”
“Maulk,” Berg said, grinding his teeth. “Calibration” was the longest part of fitting. Essentially, Portana was going to have to start over. Worse, he was going to have to tell Top why he had to start over.