Mechanical Failure by Joe Zieja

quarters—still haunted him like the knowledge that a loved one was dead, never to be seen again. Rogers fondly remembered the glow of the beer light waking him up late in the afternoon on days when the previous night had been particularly good.
    Rogers’ intuition was right. The commissary deck, normally the center of all activity on the Flagship , now consisted of troops walking from the up-line to the mess halls and back again, like some sort of twisted soldier feeding lot. There was no joy in their faces, only the crushing weight of daily routine and the doldrums of a regimented lifestyle. That and, bizarrely, something that Rogers may have confused with devotion to duty.
    The mess halls were scattered all over the commissary deck to break up the massive crew of the Flagship . It didn’t work; everyone usually figured out which were the good ones pretty quickly and went there instead. They had each been unofficially named after combat maneuvers, which served a dual purpose of being easier to remember than “Mess Hall A” and making all of the eateries sound like bizarre old-world taverns. Rogers’ favorite was the Uncouth Corkscrew, mostly because he liked ambiguous double entendres, but if the lines were too long, he’d settle for the Peek and Shoot or the Up and Over. Under no circumstances would he ever eat at the Kamikaze or the Frantically Run Away.
    The Uncouth Corkscrew was calm so early in the morning, despite the fact that it was occupied by marines and spacers gathered in loose clusters around the dining hall. The long tables and benches, instead of being packed with people trying to talk over each other, were populated more like an electron cloud. Any conversation happening appeared to be just coincidences and courtesies.
    And, most shocking of all, almost no one was in the kitchen getting food. Everyone was stopping by the SEWR rat dispenser, grabbing a package or two, and moving to a table to sit down and eat silently. The few times that Rogers had been up for breakfast in the past, he had been treated to eggs Benedict, steak and eggs, and, on one special but rather bizarre occasion, Cornish game hen stuffed with chocolate-covered strawberries. I Nobody would pass that sort of fare up for protein cardboard.
    Despite the ominous emptiness of the kitchen, Rogers ventured inside, ordered some eggs and bacon from a very surprised services troop, and found himself a table with a few marines at it.
    The moment he sat down, he heard that damn non-word again.
    â€œA-TEN-HOOOAH!”
    The entire table jumped up and stood at attention. One of the marines “presented arms” using a fork. To his credit, it looked very snappy.
    â€œStop that,” Rogers said. “Sit down. Um, carry on. Eat food, march  !”
    He kept forgetting that he was an officer now. Not only was he not allowed to accomplish anything productive, it was his destiny to continually stop anyone else from doing anything productive simply by walking into rooms or sitting at tables.
    The marines exchanged confused, wary glances as they lowered themselves slowly back to the bench, each of them making sure that Rogers’ ass touched the surface before theirs did. It felt strange, engaging in a sort of backward ass-race of who could sit down the slowest.
    Not feeling very much like conversation, Rogers dug into some very suspicious-looking eggs for about three seconds before his gag reflex kicked in. Before he could get the second forkful to his mouth, Rogers froze where he sat and stared, aghast, at the monstrosity that was breakfast. Spitting out what hadn’t already slid down his throat, he pointed at the dish and spoke a little too loud.
    â€œThis tastes like motor oil!”
    One of the marines choked, though whether it was because of Rogers’ comment or because he was eating the aforementioned protein cardboard without drinking enough water, Rogers wasn’t sure.
    Peeling back the egg on