Expendable - James Alan Gardner [19]
[Pause.]
Yarrun: Rather explains why the High Council of Admirals never leaves New Earth, doesn’t it?
Chee: You bet your ass, sonny. Those buggers would be vaporized if they jumped too high on a pogo stick.
In the Galley
The galley was brightly lit. Coming in from the nightdim corridors, we blinked like wakened owls.
Two ensigns lounged at a table near the door, one wearing the dark blue of the Communications Corps and the other in Life Support white. The woman in blue was laughing at something as we entered; she had her back to us. The other woman looked up with a smile on her face, saw the admiral’s gray jacket, and snapped to jittery attention. The laugher swung her head around and jumped up too.
“At ease,” Chee commanded, “at goddamned ease. It’s beyond me why the Fleet wants people to play jack-in-the-box when an officer enters the room. This hopping around is unsettling. I could name you five Fringe Worlds where they’d think you were drawing a gun.”
Under his breath, Yarrun murmured, “Herrek, Golding, Nineveh, Biscayne…”
“And Sitz,” I offered, when it became clear he was stuck.
“Bloody Explorers,” Chee complained to the ensigns. “Heads filled with trivia no one cares about.” He fixed his eye on the woman who’d been laughing. “What’s your opinion of bloody Explorers, ensign?”
“I don’t know, sir.” She ventured a worried glance at his mauve baggies.
“Of course you know. You’re just too chicken-shit to say anything.” He snapped around to the other woman. “What’s your opinion of chicken-shit ensigns, ensign? Take your time; whatever you say will offend someone.”
The woman took a deep breath. “I don’t think that’s a fair question, sir.”
Chee clapped his hands in delight. “Quite right, ensign, I was being a prick. I can’t understand why people put up with it. What’s your name?”
“Berta Deeren, sir.”
“Berta Deeren Sir, you have the makings of a human being. If you’re ever offered a command position, jump ship. Now get out of here, the two of you—we’re going to fill this place with the stink of death.”
The ensigns saluted quickly and headed for the door. Berta Deeren was blushing hot red. Yarrun and I stood aside as they left.
“Sir,” Yarrun said to the admiral after the ensigns were gone, “why do you do that to people?”
Chee smiled. “You could say I’m trying to wake the clods out of their rigid mental sets by forcing them to deal with unconventional behavior…or you could say I just like jerking folks around. For that matter, you could say anything you damned well want to. I do.”
He grinned at Yarrun. Yarrun gazed back thoughtfully. I said, “The hot chocolate is over there.”
Mushrooms
Mushroom slices floated on the surface of my hot chocolate like ocean flotsam. I sipped carefully so I didn’t get any mushrooms in my mouth. The damned things wanted to be swallowed—they nudged my lip in their eagerness.
No one serving in deep space could avoid mushrooms for long. Huge quantities were grown on every ship, station, and outpost. They grew quickly and cheerfully under conditions that would kill photosynthesizing plants: odd gravitational effects, artificial atmosphere, lack of natural germinating agents. Mushrooms were served as “fresh treats” in contrast to the synthesized food that made up the bulk of our diets. The Fleet expected us to slaver with gratitude.
I did not like mushrooms. I did not dislike mushrooms. I had long since transcended the urge to vomit at the sight of yet another mushroom-based meal (stuffed mushrooms, mushrooms au gratin, poached mushrooms with creamy mushroom sauce), and had achieved a lofty plateau of indifference to the nasty gray growths.
On Landings, however, I did delight in hacking up fungoid matter whenever a mission required biological samples.
Hot Chocolate
The hot chocolate was lukewarm because the pressure pot was being used for coffee.
Pressure pots were needed to compensate for the subnormal air pressure maintained on board ship. Low pressure meant that water boiled at a lower temperature, and that meant