I leaned against the side of the engineering suit’s tree-trunk leg, hidden in the shadows by the positioning of the portable floodlights, and examined the work of the Fleet Engineers with a critical eye. As shitters went, I’d definitely seen better. Sheet metal roof propped up on lifts a few centimeters off buildfoam walls with ventilation fans in the gap, and a plastic curtain door. It might have been a good setup on Hachiman, but here, it was humid, smelly, and crawling with the local insects, and I imagined for a man like Cronje who really valued his seat time, it had to be maddening.
I’d decided to make an anonymous complaint on the Brigade Morale Net and was running through the wording when Cronje ambled past me, hands stuffed in his pockets in a way that would have got him dropped for about a million pushups at OCS. He wasn’t carrying a weapon because this was just a nice, friendly trip to the shitter and we were all friends in the Marine latrine.
I stepped out from cover and matched his steps from three meters back, wondering how long it would take him to notice. I’d bet myself that it would be at least ten seconds, and I was right. He spun around just two steps before the curtain door, going into a defensive stance as if Tahni ninjas were sneaking up on him.
“Nice form, sir,” I said, arms folded across my chest. “You should offer to teach unarmed combat for the battalion officer corps.”
He straightened, his face going red.
“What the hell do you want, Alvarez? Are you following me?”
“Oh, no, sir,” I assured him. “I just had to take a dump. That’s why you’re here, isn’t it? It’s totally a coincidence. You know, it’s funny, I coincidentally ran into three NCO’s from one of your platoons the other night on the way back from the mess hall. It was so strange, they just happened to be sitting behind some of that rubble the Fleet Engineers cleared out, right on the way from the barracks to the mess hall. What are the odds?”
“If you have something you want to say to me, Lieutenant,” he growled, “then I suggest you make a fucking appointment and come see me during the day.”
“You know, that’s a great idea, sir,” I told him, shaking a finger in agreement. “I think if someone wants to deliver a message, they should do it personally, not send someone else. Because you never can count on a subordinate delivering the message you want. They just might not be up to the job.”
He wanted to come after me, I could see it in his eyes. He took a half-step forward but stopped himself, teeth clenched, face turning so red I thought he might be having a stroke.
“You believe this, you worthless piece of shit, if I want to deliver any message to you, I’ll do it myself, and you won’t have any trouble understanding it.”
I grinned, showing him nothing but a cool exterior, but inside, my guts were churning, every fiber of my being wanting nothing more than to beat the living shit out of him. I thought I could do it. He was mouthy, way too loud and talkative for someone who actually knew how to fight. He was an Academy grad, and most of them had never set foot in the Underground, any Underground in any city. He probably got into a shoving match in high school and thought that and a few martial arts classes meant he knew how to fight.
“If you have any messages to deliver to me, sir,” I said, “I can’t think of any better time than now for you to tell me. After all, I’m right here. It’s just the two of us. Who knows when you’ll have the opportunity again? You don’t want to waste it, do you? Sir?”
Yeah, this was stupid. I was sure Bang-Bang, the Skipper, Vicky, anyone who I would have asked would have told me it was stupid. They would have told me I was risking a court-martial, getting busted in rank, maybe even going to the brig. Which was probably why I hadn’t asked anyone, just decided to go do it.
But he was close, so very close to taking that first swing. His right fist was clenching, his left foot shifting, ready for that big right cross that most idiots who don’t know how to fight try to throw to end everything with one punch.
The curtain barrier to the latrine slid open with a clatter of the plastic rings securing it to the metal rod across the doorway and Francis Kovacs stepped out, his shower kit clutched in his hand.
“Oh, hey, Alvarez,” he said, stopping in his tracks. He did a double-take when he saw Captain Cronje. “Um, sir. Good evening.” He looked between the two of us. “I’m sorry, was I interrupting something?”
Cronje hissed out a sigh.
“No. I just need to take a shit.”
He brushed past Kovacs and stalked into the latrine. I let the breath I’d been holding rush out, the tension going out of my shoulders.
“You taking a shit too?” Kovacs wondered, looking confused.
“No,” I told him, disappointment heavy in the words as I turned away. “I suppose I’m not.”
“I can’t say I’m sorry to see the last of this place,” Bang-Bang told me, arms crossed, watching the power loaders marching up
