Red

Sarge was first there, damn his honor and impeccable sense of time. He looked at his chronometer. Yep, he was within 45 seconds of dead, solid perfect.

He stood in the bar feeling awkward and out of place, like a sophomore at senior prom, like all eyes were on him. A bead of sweat trickled between his shoulder blades and yea, all eyes were on him

The maitre'd cleared his throat.

"Sounds like you got a cold coming on there, fella." Sarge offered.

"Él quiere que te quites el casco, tú, el inculturista incultero." Lopez said from under Sarge's arm.

"I know, Lopez, He probably shouldn't be working with the public in his condition."
The matr'e raised his eyebrows.

Lopez noticed and ventured a sentence.

"¿Hablas español?" He queried.

"Si." The Maitre'd replied.

"Bueno, debería sugerirle que se lo diga. Si pudiera dar una pista, habría saltado desde un acantilado hace mucho tiempo. Puta estúpida."

"You speak that gobbledygook? Well, what did he say?" Sarge demanded.

"He said, sir, that you are a man of action and not one for beating around the bush and I should just let you know that helmets are not allowed in here."

"Oh, this?: He pointed to Lopez under his shoulder. "No this isn't a helmet. It's a robot I built. He was a kit I got when we were stationed at… Well, if I told ya, I'd have to kill ya..."

"Oh Dios Mio!" Lopez said.

"No sir, I meant your helmet. The one on your head."

"Well, I'm not very comfortable with that but I guess rules are rules." Sarge pushed the button and there was a vague hiss as the suit depressurized. It was always uncomfortable, breathing air that had only been recirculated three or four times, having people see his face.

OH, the scar was nice, he supposed. It ran jagged and purple down his face from the silver buzzcut to the square chin. But the truth was without his helmet he was… exposed.

He followed the elegant man in the black suit all the way to the back of the bar. All fleet bars were like this. Front half officer's club, working men in the back. He liked it that way. It was the military way.

"Somethings can't be regimented." The thought ran unfettered through his mind as sometimes they often did. Usually, his brain was on lockdown, but he wasn't in the field, he wasn't in constant vigilance…

"Shut up." He said out loud and the maitre'd turned to him.

Pardon me?"

"Wasn't talking to yourself."

"Sí, él no es solo un asno, es un asno loco."

"Now, send us some Kration pretzels and cheeze food and it'll be a real party," Sarge said as he placed Lopez on the table and dropped into a chair.

"Tienes mi simpatía mi amigo." The maitre'd said as he left the room.

And now Sarge was the one place he hated most in the world… Alone with his brain.

"I wonder who'll show up next." He said, ostensibly to Lopez, but really to the walls. "Simmons probably, with a clipboard and a stick up his ass. Good man that Simmons."

He let the silence fester for a moment and glared at the wall.

"Maybe a Blue. The tall, dumb one. What's his name?"

"Caboose." Lopez intoned.

"Ya want to talk about trains at a time like this?"

Lopez, in frustration, powered down into reserve mode.

"Maybe that leader. He was a robot like you, wasn't he? Lopez? Sleeping on the job again..."

"Surely not Griff. I mean he's never been on time for anything in his life. If it weren't for the food, I'd think he'd just sleep instead. Yeah. That Patrick..."

Sarge stopped as if someone had put a knife to his throat.

"I meant Grif. I hate these stations. Not like a planet where you can hear bugs and animals and that maddening hum…"

The waitress entered, a pretty girl, a little round in the bottom and with a huge… personality. Sarge eyed her.

"What can I get you, handsome?"

"Well, my friend here will have a quart of your finest oil and I'll have a bourbon with a beer back."

"Done and done. You here for the bachelor party?"

"I am indeed, though the whole damned thing is a fool's errand. If the corp wanted us to have a wife they'd have put one in our duffle bags. Nope. Marriage is for..."

The words trailed off as thoughts he'd spent ages burying threatened revolution in the back part of his consciousness.

"Well, I have to admit I don't disagree, but I make a killing in tips on these things."

She smiled and swirled out of the room a wave of good perfume and aged whiskey and grill smoke from the kitchen dancing in her wake.

"Marriage is for suckers," Sarge said to no one, this time, truly rhetorical as his mind pushed away again the monsters of the past.

The waitress returned and with her was Grif. She put his beer and shot on the table in front of him and stepped back.

"Return to sender! Return to sender!" Sarge said loudly.

The frown on Grif's face, that look of utter defiance.

So familiar. So dear.

It was the hardest battle he'd ever fought, but somehow he kept the tear at bay,

"Ok ignore the old man. He's insane."

"OJ, come on now..."

"He tried to run me over with a tank!"

"I'm sure you're exaggerating." The waitress said.

"He put a snake in my underwear drawer..."

"Childish..."

"A very poisonous one..."

"Oh stop. You were perfectly safe. By the time you changed your underwear, it would have starved to death anyway… I wish Simmons was here, I could use a "Very funny Sargent right about now."

"Very funny Sarge," Simmons said and dropped down next to Sarge. His face was as bright and eager as Grif's pouty and recalcitrant.

"Good man. Now listen, our attendance at this little shindig does not mean we are at peace with the blues. This is more an intelligence operation..."

"Well, It looks like you forgot to bring the intelligence part," Grif said as he sat down on the other side of the table. A couple of other waitresses entered carrying large trays of food."

"Now it's a party..." Grif said picking up some potato salad with his fingers and shoving it in his mouth.

"I think that's for everyone?" Simmons said.

"Not anymore," Grif replied and tucked in.