In the Rouge

7 - Liam

This time, Liam awoke to a gruff voice shouting from what seemed to be about five feet inside his head. Various alarm signals pounding into his brain prompted him to take a quick mental inventory: ears—working, possibly too well; toes and fingers—check; eyes—oh that’s bright; headache—check, oh God double-check. He sat up and almost vomited. Trying to regain control of his rising gorge, he remained still for the next few seconds. When he felt well enough, he opened his eyes and looked around expecting the white walls and checkered floor of the death room.

     Instead, he was in a large room, round—no, octagonal—and he was near a smooth gray wall, so he reached out and—feels like smooth metal, looks like smooth metal; it might be real. About thirty people were standing around a waist high railing separating them from a circular area in the center of the room. This small area contained a low, odd-looking glass table, and a tall gray-haired man who seemed to be the origin of the shouting. Liam tuned in.

     “—in the hells[18] was that?! And Jones, fire control was a complete mess. Your men couldn’t prioritize targets from a list of one! The whole exercise was terrible! Gatley,”—the man looked directly at Liam—“Where were you? You were more useless than an umbrella in a sandstorm. Find a useful way to die next time!”

     The man sighed and looked at the faces around him. “Alright people, you have two hours to eat, rest, and dislodge your heads. Get to it. Gatley,” he said gruffly, looking down at Liam, “get your ass off the deck and come with me.”

     Liam wasn’t sure what to think, but the grim look on the man’s face indicated that now was not the time for questions. Liam got to his feet and followed the man through the hatchway leading from the bridge.

     A short distance down the hallway, the man stopped and turned to Liam. “Sergeant Gunn says you’re good. You better show it quick or you’re going to end up dead, for real.” He resumed walking.

     Liam gaped. “Good at what?” he blurted. “Sir, I have no idea what I’m supposed to be doing!”

     The man glanced sideways at Liam. “Didn’t you read your manual?”

     “Manual?” said Liam incredulously. “I was recruited yesterday. I’ve had no training and—”

     “Nothing like learning on-the-job.”

     “So I’ve heard,” Liam muttered.

     Again the man stopped and turned to Liam. “Those manuals are full of shit anyway. You stick with me, do everything I say when I say it, and you just might survive whatever pile we’re about to step in.”

     Liam hesitated a moment. “Yes, sir. Uh . . . who are you?”

     “Captain James Whorley.” He stabbed a finger at Liam. “And I’m only going to tell you this once. Don’t fuck up.”

     “Captain, oh good,” said Liam as his brain caught up and found an opportunity to seize. “Sir, I don’t think I’m supposed to be here. I haven’t had any training, and I think Sergeant Gunn drugged me to get me signed up in the first place.”

     The captain’s face went blank. “Do you have any proof you were drugged?”

     “No sir, but I sure as hell didn’t want to be in the Space Corps and I would never have signed up willingly.”

     The captain gave a small brittle smile. “Then I would suggest buying your own drinks in the future. Now, go to the mess, get something to eat, and be on the bridge in an hour.” He walked off, leaving Liam alone in the hallway.