Mechanical Failure by Joe Zieja Page B

on the viscosity of really disgusting pudding as it cooled.
    Hart shrugged, then sighed. “I’m not too far from retirement, Rogers. I’m not up for fighting with the brass over trading a wrench for a spatula. At least I still get to set stuff on fire every once in a while. Look, do yourself a favor. Grab a Sewer rat and get the nutrition your body needs. You’ll need it if we go up against the Thelicosans.”
    â€œOh, not you, too,” Rogers said. “There’s no way there’s a war coming. It doesn’t make any sense. Now you’re just stuck here wasting your time.”
    Hart’s face hardened. “Every position is critical to the war effort.”
    That made Rogers’ stomach turn. Or it could have been the motor oil doing its job inside his small intestine. He wasn’t sure.
    â€œListen,” Rogers said, “I don’t know what’s going on here. I don’t know if I really care. I want to do my time and get out of here. But if you feel like doing something you’re actually good at, I might have a project for you. I have a junked ship in the docking bay registered as the Awesome .” Hart rolled his eyes, but Rogers pushed on. “It needs a lot of work, thanks to a plasma blast. If you and the crew are looking for something to do, I’ll make sure you’re authorized to access it. Just promise me you won’t cook me any more meals, alright?”
    Hart looked skeptical, but his eyes brightened once he realized Rogers was offering him a reintroduction to his old specialty. You could take an engineer out of the bay, but you couldn’t take the bay out of the engineer, or something like that. Even Rogers still liked to take things apart and put them back together every once in a while, when he wasn’t trying to swindle pirates.
    â€œI’ll think about it.”
    â€œThat’s all I’m asking.”
    Reaching under the counter, Hart produced a yellowish-brown vacuum-sealed Sewer rat and handed it over.
    â€œTake care of yourself, Rogers. The 331st has changed.”
    â€œNo shit.”
    Rogers reluctantly took the proffered package of synthesized horse dung, warned Hart that if he called the kitchen to attention, he’d force Hart to eat his own cooking, and went back into the mess hall feeling like he’d been hit in the face. Metaphorically, this time. Dining in the military was like dining at one of the best restaurants in the galaxy. Diplomats used to make excuses to do VIP visits just to sample the impressive and decadent desserts. This was a travesty, a sham. It was worse than a sham. It was . . . military.
    â€œHey, speed bag!” someone called to him. “Over here!”
    Looking up and wiping his face—he was not crying—Rogers saw the source of the voice. Corporal Mailn was sitting with a couple of other infantry arines at a table just outside the entrance to the kitchen. Every one of them had a SEWR rat package torn open in front of them, and exactly none of them looked like they were enjoying it. None of them seemed particularly happy that an officer was coming to sit with them, either.
    â€œKeep your seats,” Rogers said. He looked at Mailn, who was grinning at him. “And don’t call me speed bag.”
    â€œDon’t get hit in the face,” she said. “Speaking of which, it kind of looks like a bunch of little girls just shook you down for lunch money. What’s on your mind?”
    Rogers sat down, grimacing. “Just missing the old days, I guess.”
    â€œOld days?” Mailn chuckled. “What are you, sixty?”
    â€œJust forget it.” Rogers opened the SEWR rat and started unpacking the contents, grabbing a glass of water that one of the other marines had courteously poured for him from the pitcher in the center of the table. “Bon appétit,” he said, and hoped he didn’t chip a tooth.
    He valued the silence the