Chapter 2: When the Ship Needs English

It was approaching 0630 on the ship. The interior passageway of the centripetal ring had more foot traffic than usual as crew members were finishing up their duty rotations. Breakfast had nearly arrived.

A tall man walked down the passageway. He had short gray hair and a pale complexion. He wore the typical red and blue camouflage marine pants and a light green shirt. On his side belt was his holstered magnum. The shirt did nothing to block the visual view of his bulked-up mass of raw muscle. He walked with a purpose that quickly had crewmembers step to the side the moment they gazed upon him.

Stone was not the man to be in front of when he walked. His demeanor, how he looked at others, and the sheer intensity with which he carried himself were designed to inspire fear and respect. He wouldn’t even glance at the other crew, almost as if they were mere blades of grass ready to stomp past with his hardened magnetic boots.

“Master Sergeant,” A wondering crewman greeted him as he moved to the wall to let him pass.

“Hmph...,” Stone grunted back as he walked past him.

The CMC continued his walk forward as a couple of other crew members walked past him. Something caught his eye as Stone could see a pair of crew members standing by one of the closed doors of the nearby crew quarters.

Two of the crew were human, one being a man and the other a woman. Stone recognized the man as Petty Officer Ramirez, the nephew of Captain Ramirez. He had short black hair and facial features reminiscent of a man born in Central America of former Earth. The blond woman Stone recognized was Petty Officer Marcelle, a very close friend of Ramirez.

The third person was what made Stone come to a halt. The small Itrean was his close, silent partner, Ioren. The Itrean woman was an unusual mix of being half Yutilian and half Aksren. She was an anthro reptilian, having the longer rounded nose of a Yutilian while carrying a large assortment of red and green feathers on her head, arms, and long feathery tail. Her Aksren side consisted of the familiar smooth bronze scale skin and nose head crest. She wore a green and red skintight uniform that covered much of the red and green color patterns on her skin. She carried a small, holstered pistol on her hip.

In her four-fingered clawed hands was an open tilon. The metal rods were split apart with a digital screen and keypad illuminated for her other hand to interact with. The moment that Ioren’s reptilian eyes glanced at Stone, her feathers rose and lowered.

Something was wrong...

“What the fuck is this?” Stone firmly reacted as he looked at the door to Ramirez’s quarters. Both Ramirez and Marcelle seemed distressed and for all good reason. The master sergeant approached the entrance as Ramirez and Marcelle stepped aside.

Written on Ramirez’s closed door was one word in bold letters:

“FASCIST...”

“It happened again, Master Sergeant,” Ramirez said, his accent giving the hint of a person born on Palora.

“Explain,” Stone ordered.

“I was away on my watch,” Ramirez explained. “I was coming back, and then I saw this on my door.”

Stone’s single augmented eye changed to different spectrums as the man began to analyze the door. The lettering was colored in red paint.

“No fingerprints on the door,” Stone remarked. The man’s grip tightened as he looked at Ioren. “You’re doing a security report?”

“Yes,” Ioren’s tablet said. The silent Itrean began to type as her tilon translated the words out loud in a female voice. “The second incident recorded in two weeks. I was about to investigate the scene further.”

“Master Sergeant,” Marcelle pleaded with her familiar French accent. “This is a death threat to him, I’m sure.”

“Fucking bastard...,” Stone remarked as his hand barely grazed the surface. “I see no brushstroke marks ... no indents. This was done quickly so the person wouldn’t be caught.” The man looked up at the door edges. “Of course, this doesn’t have a camera relay.” The man placed his fingers on the ink.

“The lettering is the same font size as before,” Ioren’s tilon said.

“And the ink is still fresh ... applied three hours ago.” The man checked the flake of paint on his fingers. “It’s ... the typical paint used by our deckhands. Composition is similar to ... you writing this or you just looking at me?”

Stone had lightly snapped at Ioren, but it wasn’t the tone of anger. The Itrean turned to her tilon and was typing down the report fervently. She had little room to respond to the man. Ramirez even knew that Stone was a man of action, but even this was disturbing. It was almost as if the CMC had his hands restrained in some way. The muscular behemoth’s brow furled a little bit as Stone gave an angered look.

“Continue with your investigation, Chief of Security,” Stone explained. “Petty Officer, this person or group will be found, and I’ll deal the punishment myself.”

“Shouldn’t we get cameras installed in this passageway, Master Sergeant?” Ramirez questioned. “Or someone to...”

“There will be no such action. You can thank your CO for that one, but I will render your complaints to her myself. As you were...”

The CMC shook his head. A look of frustration and anger filled his veins as he briefly put his hand on Ioren’s shoulder before walking past her. Ioren seemed to relax a little bit as the man left the three alone.

Stone approached a nearby panel on one of the doors. He tapped a few buttons to open a communication channel. The look of held rage would last for twenty seconds when a familiar deep voice could be heard from the panel.

“CMC to CO,” Stone said.

“Stone,” Shira’s voice replied. “What do you need?”

“Centurion Ioren has a new incident report that she’ll be delivering to you. It’s Petty Officer Ramirez. Expect me at your stateroom in the hour. That’ll be all...”

“Very well,” Shira replied.

With a lightly enclosed fist, Stone tapped the panel to close the comms channel. Ramirez and Marcelle remained close to Ioren, giving their information for the report.

The master sergeant’s hands closed into fists as he continued to keep moving ahead. He had a scolding look on his face. Within another twenty seconds, the man arrived at the ship’s galley. The door was already open as early relief breakfast had begun.

The galley and mess hall were a small cafeteria for the ship. It was lit differently, consisting of blue and yellow lighting. The floor had blue metal tiles and a small walkway that led to the serving section. A few drink dispensers, at least three of the four heat wells, had food in them. Stone made no hesitation in grabbing a metal tray, a metal plate, and a magnetized coffee cup before smacking it on the serving rack. Behind the serving section was a single aisle allocated to a stove, sink, cooking appliances, and other wares.

All three of the culinary specialists were there. Stone only knew two of them, one being the head specialist, Chief Elimiano. The chief was a somewhat lackluster but friendly individual, worn down by the endless, nonstop days of serving food on the ship. He had a mixed complexion and a hairless face. Most likely, he was descended from the Philippines of former Earth. The other person was an Aphadian lad, Seaman Manoj, who recently transferred to the ship. He had a darker complexion, a black mustache, and dark hair. The other culinary specialist, a pale-faced man, supposedly worked in the back a lot while serving lunches by the day. The man was showing Manoj how to unpackage a loaf of bread and how to set the cooking equipment properly.

“CMC,” Elimiano remarked in his Martian accent. “How’s your morning going?”

“Hmph...,” Stone grunted as he pointed at a batch of scrambled eggs in the well.

“That all?” the chief remarked with a chuckle. The man scooped up a portion and dumped it into the plate. “Got a batch of French toast for you.”

“I’ll take two.”

“And here you go,” the chief took a pair of tongs, grabbed two pieces from the food well, and tossed them onto his plate.

“Where’s your new chef?” Stone asked.

“He’s ... not here yet.”

“Not making a good impression so far.”

“I might give him some slack, Stone. He’s just a civilian, after all.”

“We’ll see about that.” Stone took his tray, grabbed some utensils, and brought it to the counter where the dispensers were. After getting some syrup and filling his coffee cup, he turned to the other side of the room where the mess hall was located.

This portion of the room consisted of at least eight tables with a few displays mounted to the top walls. Two crew members were sitting by one of the tables, chatting with one another. In the far corner table was a marine that Stone knew all too well, one that was also getting his early meal. He was a Gunnery Sergeant, a man who was around Stone’s age, gray-haired, and possibly in his early sixties. On his tag was the name “Ihan.” He had a slightly pale and mixed complexion and carried the facial features of a Paloran. It was easy for Stone to make his decision on where he wanted to sit.

It took a few seconds as Stone walked up to the table, held his cup, and lightly tossed his tray, where it magnetized itself with a hard thud. A little bit of scrambled eggs flew from the plate but still landed in the metal tray. The gunnery sergeant was a little bit startled but smiled as soon as he saw the stalwart Stone sit down on the other side of the table facing in his direction.

“Throwing the plate this time?” Ihan remarked as he was halfway finished with his meal. The hint of his Spanish accent was apparent. “Someone is in a foul mood today ... or more so than usual.”

“Hmph...,” Stone reacted as he took a sip of his coffee before slamming it onto the table, almost spilling the contents inside it. The master sergeant took his fork and knife and began cutting up his French toast.

“That bad, huh?” Ihan asked. “What is it this time, Avalanche?”

“Another graffiti on someone’s door,” Stone sternly said before shoving his breakfast down his mouth.

“Que? Oh no. Is it Ramirez again?”

Stone remained silent as he continued cutting his food. Ihan knew it was challenging to get through to the man when he was ready to bash the mounted table. He shook his head and continued eating.

One of the displays was on but kept at low volume. The image projected was a recorded broadcast courtesy of the United Worlds’ Alliance Network. In the early mornings, few people paid much attention to it, but the smaller crowd of individuals made it easier to get immersed in it. The live feed was that of the Martian news. An anchorwoman, dressed in a red and orange dress with dyed red hair and carrying the facial features of a Chinese woman from former Earth, was presiding over the news. The current topic seemed non-important as Ihan was slowing down on his eating.

“Eat too fast, and it’s just going to come out the way it entered,” Ihan said. “Talk to me, Avalanche. You sat here for a reason.”

Stone paused in his eating as he placed his fork on the metal tray. “I want to have more roving patrols,” the master sergeant said.

“Didn’t you already bring this up with the Captain?” Ihan asked. “She’s just going to turn it down, not to mention we still don’t have enough marines to watch every nook and cranny of this ship.”

“We got Lance Corporal Petko three weeks ago, not to mention the new Shal’rein woman, Girsha’lar. It’s enough.”

Ihan shrugged. “You want to drag down the kids by having them take up more watches than usual it will...”

Stone gave a stern look at Ihan, interrupting him. The piercing gaze was enough to almost counter his argument alone. The gunnery sergeant sighed and tapped the table.

“Avalanche,” Ihan continued. “You want us to follow your orders, of course, we will, but ... you seem more angry than usual.”

“Trying to be my psychologist, now?” Stone asked.

“No ... as your friend. You can pretend that you have the marine tenacity and more guts than any other man out there, but I don’t want to see our marines pass out on watch or let alone stim them to death. We need soldiers, and with our government still avoiding drafting the population, we have to rely on volunteers to fill the ranks.”

“It’s fucking foolish,” the master sergeant grunted as he shook his head. “In the middle of a goddamn war, and we’re reduced to this?”

Ihan looked at the other crew that sat at the table. “It’s never been the same since Gabatrix died, hasn’t it? There was a period when we had three times the number of marines than it was now, even before Cipra. I swore I remember the assault carriers were filled to burst. The younger ones...”

“They grew too soft...” Stone interjected. “They got too used to living a sedentary and cozy life.”

“And some of us have grown too gray ... and too few ... I’ve heard stories that they’re fishing for more of us ... digging us up like we’re relics, slapping our rank and uniform back on just so they can fight the good fight. I guess we’re just made of sterner stuff.”

“Hmph...” Stone grunted. The huff that the master sergeant made was enough to put a mild smile on the gunnery sergeant’s face. He picked up his cup of coffee and held it high in a gesture of cheers.

“To us,” Ihan calmly cheered. “With Avalanche on our ship, may our enemies cower in fear, and the young ones reawaken as the ancient soldiers of the past.”

That was enough to actually cause Stone to lift up his cup of coffee in response to his.

“Redder than blood,” Stone said with a hint of gratitude.

“Blood for life,” Ihan replied.

With that, both of the men swigged down their coffee and slapped it down on the table in unison.

While both men continued eating, a familiar individual walked into the galley. Bransen was dressed in a white t-shirt, black pants, and a black apron, along with an elongated chef hat. The sense of a smile was on his face as he saw Elimiano.

“Whoa,” the chief reacted from behind the serving counter. “There he is, the cooking legend himself.”

Stone, Ihan, and the other crew members turned to see Bransen arrive and walk behind the counter. Stone seemed unimpressed before resuming eating. The other culinary specialists, or at least the ones who knew about him, looked upon Bransen as a god. Manoj stopped what he was doing and remained speechless.

“No way!” Manoj reacted in surprise.

“Sorry that I’m late,” Bransen remarked. “Getting myself back into waking up early.”

“Been used to fighting late nights in arenas, haven’t you?” Elimiano asked.

“What?” asked the female culinary specialist. “What’s he doing here?”

“You need a professional chef, and I’m your man,” Bransen reacted with pride. The chef walked into the kitchen as the chief took a break from the front serving area.

“Chef Bransen, welcome to the Lifen’s primary galley and mess hall,” Elimiano greeted him. He extended his hand as Bransen shook it.

“I’m used to the ‘civie-life,’ as the other sailors tell me.” The chef paused before breaking the handshake. He looked at the appliances. “Looks like you got two Genisen O-340 stoves. Shame you don’t have the Furoshima X-2s. The O-340s consume twice as much power and have that annoying screech beep that you could never change when their timers reached.”

“Heh,” the chief reacted with a light chuckle. “Yeah, but you’re on a military ship. UHN doesn’t always lean on the luxury equipment.”

“Cheap equipment ... cheap foods...,” Bransen walked up to the bin of French toast. “Just like this...?” The chef frowned and shook his head. “This supposed to be French toast? Oh ... Oh no. No, that won’t do.”

“Excuse me?” the woman asked.

“Manoj, you mind taking over at the front serving counter?” the chief asked him.

“Sure thing, Chief,” Manoj replied. He stepped out to the serving section while still keeping an eye on Bransen.

“Chef Bransen,” the chief introduced himself. “I’m Chief Elimiano, the head CS on the ship. Seaman Manoj is our new guy behind the counter, and this is Petty Officer Paisley. Bransen is going to be serving on the Lifen for a while.”

“Paisley? Nice to meet you,” Bransen greeted with a handshake. However, Paisley did not reciprocate the hand and took a step back from him. She had a look of concern on her face. This also caused Bransen to look confused.

“You ... you’re serious?” Paisley asked the chief. “He’s allowed to be with us?” Her surprise slowly turned into anger.

“What is it, Paisley?” the chief asked.

“I ... I can’t do this, Chief ... not with somebody like him onboard.”

“Paisley ... Petty Officer,” Elimiano grew severe in his tone. With that, the petty officer shook her head and started to walk out, almost to Bransen’s surprise.

“No ... no...” She said.

“Petty Officer Paisley, return to your post!”

It proved pointless. Paisley walked out of the galley before anybody else had a chance to say something. Ihan and the other crew members looked at each other before resuming their eating.

Bransen tried to remain tough but was slightly shaken by the woman’s distress on his arrival. He hoped that it wasn’t having to deal with his history.

“Don’t worry, Bransen,” the chief told him before putting his arm on his shoulder. “I’ll talk to her and get this straightened out. I’m sure that it’s a misunderstanding.”

“I hope so,” Bransen remarked.

Back in the mess hall, Ihan turned his attention back to the master sergeant.

“Phew...,” the gunnery sergeant commented. “We get an awesome cook, and the other one walks out.”

“I heard it,” Stone replied. “The chief can take this up to his chain of command, and I’ll handle it.”

“Heh...,” Ihan smiled and shook his head. “No doubt you would.” The gunnery sergeant began toying with the last bite of his French toast. “Yeah ... this shit’s no good.” He shoveled it into his mouth. “Wouldn’t mind better food,” he tried to say while chewing it.

“Now you’re bitching about the food?” Stone asked him.

“I’m just saying that it could be better...” Ihan leaned forward. “And don’t try to deny it, either, Avalanche. You’ve served way more on planetary bases where the best food was at. About time the CO decided to see reason. Hell, I’ll pay for a better meal than this.”

“Hmph...,” Stone grunted. For a moment, even the hardened CMC looked at the last of his scrambled eggs. Made from heated water and dry powder, it had the flattest taste that ever existed. Even Stone showed a mild hint of disgust at it. He quickly pushed the thoughts away before shoveling down the last of his food and leaning back onto his seat, letting the meal settle into his stomach.

“What’s this?” Ihan asked as he looked at the display that was on. The news was showing a topic of interest that came on. The gunnery sergeant reached over and tapped a few buttons on his right arm, revealing that he had an augmented hand. Outlines of the flesh glowed blue as a 3D menu interface projected for Ihan’s other hand to interact with. He ran the volume slider to raise the volume on the display.

Stone and the other crew in the mess hall turned to look at the news feed. It showed the flag of Batrice in the top right corner. The colony symbol consisted of red, blue, and green, showing a five-domed temple in the center.

“In other news,” the anchorwoman explained behind her table. The hint of her Martian accent could be heard. “The colony of Batrice has made a new set of sweeping reforms in their government a day ago. Among one of the current controversies lie in the recent removal of statues dedicated to Ciro Gabatrix, including inside their capital city of New Phnom Penh and Fort Batrice.”