The portly man with swarthy skin had turned an alarming vermilion as he waved his arms about with violent thrashing motions, which was made all the more alarming by the tubular, wooden implement in his left hand. A stream of words spewed from his mouth and echoed into the room. Mike didn’t immediately recognize the language, but could speculate the words were less than friendly.
An angry mess hall leader always heralded a shitty dinner.
That, of course, shot morale to shit.
Mike caught sight of members of his Urilqii Food Service Squadron as they peeked into the room from where they lurked behind the angry human. The amused expressions vanished the moment they spotted Mike in the entranceway.
Their asses also vanished from the doorway as they fled back to their duties.
Steve held the ground halfway between the volunteers and the angry cook. He was doing his best to ease the situation, although it was obvious he didn’t understand the verbal deluge either.
“Take it easy, Marco,” Steve was saying, his voice soothing.
“I’ll make sure the tables are put back before we leave.”
Chef Marco, Mike remembered. He did amazing things with cheese. But at this moment, he looked ready to do amazing things against Steve’s head with that wood-tube-thing.
The chef spat out another stream of…Italian? Mike struggled to find the language. His memory gave a sluggish response. The man’s annoyance was over “filth” and “germs” that threatened his “excellent food.”
“Really.” Steve held out his hands in a staying gesture. “You’ll never know we were here. The floor will be so clean you could—”
He broke off and cleared his throat.
Marco looked like a surface-to-air missile primed to launch. He swelled further, if that was possible, and opened his mouth to further emphasize his ire, but, as amusing as this was, it couldn’t be allowed to continue.
Mike stepped forward. Chef Marco noticed his advance and bit off his words.
“Okay, that’s enough.” Mike flicked a telling gaze between the two. Steve’s jaw squared, but he stifled his annoyance like the good soldier he was. Marco, however, wasn’t ready to end things.
“Sergeant!” He shouted the word and wound up for another blast. “This soldier has—”
“I can see what he’s done.” He added an icy tone to his voice.
“All of it is standard operating procedure.”
“You permit this insult to my—”
Mike cut him off again. “Rest assured, the room will be cleaned and prepped for another of your excellent meals thirty minutes before service begins.” He cut Steve a speaking glance.
Steve’s eyes narrowed. “Yes, it will.”
“But the germs—”
“And the master sergeant will have the room disinfected as the final step in the process.”
The angry cook, relaxed.
“Your concerns over sanitation are noted and taken seriously. Everyone will eat safe tonight, even if the master sergeant has to use the chemical cleaner himself. You have my word.” He slanted another glance to his pod-kin. “Right?”
Steve’s mouth tightened. “Right.”
A smile broke across Marco’s broad face, highlighting skin no longer flushed. “Thank you. I know your people are resistant to germs and diseases, but we are still vulnerable to many.”
“I understand.” Mike nodded and didn’t bother noting that the Urilqii medical teams could combat anything Earth’s toxins could throw at personnel. “Safety first. The E’ssennet adhere to that standard for your people as well as ours.”
With a virtuous smile, the chef nodded and returned to his passion. He flicked the kitchen doors shut behind him.
::Way to go, bus driver,:: Steve snapped.
Yeah, Steve was pissed. Sucked to be him.
::Morale,:: he reminded Steve. ::A happy soldier is a better soldier. And good food goes a long way toward making happy soldiers.::
His pod-kin snorted audibly as they both turned to face the wary, silent group of human volunteers and members of the cabal who’d volunteered to act as teaching assistants. Mike pasted a friendly expression onto his face and made the rounds, shaking hands and thanking them for their willingness to volunteer.
The soonest he could make his escape he did so and headed toward his second check-in point. Things in the motor pool were as he expected, stuffed with soldiers and not a pissed person in sight.
It was no surprise the majority of volunteers were here. Their species didn’t let their hands or feet leave the ground, not without some form of vehicle. Left or right was the norm. Long curves of movement joined angles instead of a simple directional shift. He didn’t understand that type of reality, but he recognized that it would be of significant value in battle against the enemy. He just needed to figure out how.
Mike’s people didn’t yet have the answer, but they would.
They had to find that answer. Earth’s residents needed to be trained and able to take care of their planet without outside assistance. The Urilqii wouldn’t be here forever.
He made the rounds again, smiling and glad-handing the volunteers, and was prevented from leaving by an invitation to join the platoon as they introduced the equipment. Since a vehicle-to-vehicle inspection was one of his duties, Mike surrendered to the inevitable and killed two Targolt with one blast.
He assisted the process of familiarizing the humans with Urilqii land, water and air vehicles at the same times he inspected the ones actively beneath his hands.
Mike wasn’t worried about the delay. Flight wouldn’t lift off with their volunteers until he got to the field. He’d been damned clear about that. However, it was with a sense of relief that he did make his exit.
He stopped by supply to retrieve his flight suit, then climbed into it. He was headed toward the field even before he finished sealing his seams.
His helmet bobbed on his hip as he approached the squadron, still folding and tucking and buckling. He noticed with pride how each soldier stood at attention behind a spotless flight suit.
His blood bubbled through his veins as his heartbeat doubled from the excitement. Any chance to go aloft brought euphoria.
Flight .
Mike fucking loved to fly. The instant
