Back | Next
Contents

Chapter Thirty-Four

“How’d your second day of pod-herding go, boss?” Roeder asked, wrinkling his nose as he helped Harry get his helmet off.

“It’s not hard in a technical sense, but it’s like one long low-level workout. You never stop sweating,” Harry said, vigorously scratching his chest. He felt as though he’d been marinating in a wetsuit for a week. “Ahh, damn, I’ve been wanting to do that for two hours. You’re constantly working against the elasticity of the EVA gear and it rubs everywhere. All right, turn around, I’m getting this damn diaper off. The fu—the stupid catheter slid out.”

He turned his back to the rest of the room and started shucking the remaining gear. In the little nook near the food warming equipment, Pham studied a magnetic chessboard, ignoring the byplay.

Grave de Peralto and McPherson were already outside, working the problem of capturing the next pair of pods fired from the distant and receding Outpost. Once the pods were safely lassoed, the EVA teams plugged the four-meter ovoids into the mass transfer system. Not much more than a hose, some valves, and a vacuum tank, the ad hoc system rapidly discharged the mass of water into the shield wall of the habs, improving the rad resistance of their temporary home. Each RockHound lived with the equivalent of an old-school dosimeter. Once they reached maximum exposure, they risked serious complications. Each pod represented a few points reduction in the radiation from the primary and increased their margin of safety. Harry, like the rest of the Lawless, also wore a dosimeter, though his lifetime total was far lower, courtesy of his planet-bound existence up to the point of the kidnapping.

“Yeah,” Roeder answered, looking away. Rodriguez had also turned his back to examine his own private region. “Good training, this.”

With another sigh of relief, Harry slid the swollen MAG off and dumped it into a refuse bin.

Oh, the glory and romance of space travel. Next time, stick the damn catheter in, uh, more.


“Okay, here’s the deal,” Roeder announced, handing little ketchup packet–sized sachets to each person. “In my capacity as acting corpsman, I strongly advise you to keep your catheter lubricated. We’re only four days in, and all of you are getting considerable irritation.”

“Considerable irritation, he says!” Rodriguez snarled, snatching his lube from Roeder’s outstretched hand. “I’m goddamned pissed!”

“That’s how you know it’s really good training,” Roeder quipped, trying to conceal a grin. “You need to keep the area clean and dry, except for, you know, the part where the catheter goes. Lube the hell out of that. But just the tip.”

“Thanks a lot, you wanna-be chancre mechanic,” Rodriguez said, studying his own equipment. “Admit it, you’ve been waiting to use that line all this time.”

“Hey, keep it down!” McPherson called from where he sat, alone, studying the chessboard. “I’ve got fifty kilocredits riding on this game! I’m finally gonna take Roeder!”

“Not a chance, you Scot bastard,” Roeder answered merrily. “Mate in six; nothing you can do.”

“That’s why we’re being forced to do this now, Marco,” Harry said, returning to the main topic and studying his own inflamed…parts. “We cheated too much during initial training and gave everyone pee breaks. Now we’re paying for it. Should’ve made you wear the suits all day, then we wouldn’t be suffering from, um, chaffing. Speaking of which, do you have the topical analgesic cream, Doc?”

“Here you go, sir,” the big Navy chief said. “Whoops, there’s the proximity alarm. Pods are early. Team One to the airlock. Time for more good training.”

He ignored a baleful look from Rodriguez and extended his meaty arm again, holding a bulging plastic sack. “The bathroom is broken again. Don’t forget the solid waste bag. And don’t snag it on anything.”


“Next pair to the airlock,” Harry said after wearily undogging his faceplate. “Mind your step. Marco snagged the shitbag on the relief valve hand wheel and the freeze-dried poop is already starting to smell.”

Roeder and Pham were next.

“Jesus, Rodriguez!” Roeder said, hastily locking and sealing his helmet. The external speaker came on a second later. “That reeks! What the hell are you eating?”

“Let me find it—it’s the same thing I’ve been having for a week,” Rodriguez said, exaggeratedly fishing around in the thigh-mounted cargo pocket of his EVA suit. He pulled out a closed fist and raised it toward the aggravated corpsman, lifting the middle finger at the same time. “Here it is.”

“Smells like home after you Americans finished building a base,” Pham said. “You could tell the foreigners had arrived from the smell of Coca-Cola, jet exhaust, gasoline, and burning shit. I almost miss it. Or is that good training?”

The room full of men chorused together, as though it had been rehearsed, “Oh, this is superior training!”


“Son of a bitch, that smarts!” Harry said, slathering a white cream on the inside of his thighs, trying to coat the raised red welts that decorated both legs. He lifted one arm to examine the matching raw areas of his underarms. “Why the hell is this happening, Doc?”

“Not enough fresh water to get the clothes or our bodies clean, sir,” Roeder replied, looking at the profoundly irritated patches of skin with professional interest. “We’re in and out of the suits every eight hours. I’m kinda surprised it took ten days. We’re getting chafing and skin infections, and Rodriguez has a truly impressive UTI.”

“Hahahaha!” Grave de Peralto laughed uproariously. “A UTI. Like a chick!”

“Fuck you, dicksmith!” The Army SF noncom was in no mood. “And Flea, if you don’t shut it, I’m going to make a new lockout procedure. Step one: insert pint-sized Cubano into airlock without suit.”

“Ooh, emergency egress training!” Grave de Peralto said. “The very best of all!”


Harry stood, his feet still inside the integrated EVA boots, while the rest of his gear hung down about his calves and ankles. His MAG and trishorts were likewise pulled down and he absolutely did not care who could see. He pointed at the rapidly dwindling tub of analgesic cream that was just out of reach and made “come on” gestures at Roeder.

“You need to take it easy on that stuff, sir. We have hardly any left!”

“Don’t care,” Harry said. “Pass it over, Doc.”


“It took two weeks, but finally not having to wear that damn EVA suit every day is my kind of heaven,” Rodriguez said, sniffing experimentally. “Except for the body odor, reconstituted plant-based protein pack meals, non-functioning personal waste reclamation unit, and Roeder’s snoring, I’m living the dream.”

“Have you recovered from your ladies’ complaint, Sergeant?” Grave de Peralto inquired sweetly.

“You Navy sub guys would know about ladies’ complaints, I suppose,” Rodriguez replied, lying comfortably on his couch, starkers save for warm socks. “All I know is I’m finally not itching or burning, I can air everything out, and I definitely don’t have to ram that catheter up my—”

A very loud, very irritating electronic warbling filled the small confines of the hab, arresting all activity.

“Shit!” Harry yelled, lurching from his seat next to the chess game. “Collision alarm!”

Wide-eyed, everyone grabbed a handhold.

“No, you morons!” Harry yelled, stuffing his first foot into his beloved EVA suit. “Suit up, strap in, and stand by. Now!”

There was a general scramble.

“I can’t fucking believe it!” Rodriguez yelled, diving for his EVA gear. “Not again!”

“Hey, I think this is yours, Sergeant!” Laughing, Grave de Peralto threw a pack of catheter lube across the narrow space. “You’re gonna want to get your special friend nice and slippery; Major Tapper says you need more training!”

“You’re a dead man, squid!”


Back | Next
Framed