She stepped out of the shower and padded over to the wardrobe, picking out a random assortment of clothes - dungarees, a spun nu-silk wooly jumper.
The cube was cramped, ascetic, but over the years, she had added some personal touches. A real pinewood chair. A few books, one of which was an earth original, salvaged from the wreck of the Unity.
Not very Spartan, tutted Sonia. 'Spartan austerity!' Sonia mouthed to the palm-sized mirror, her face wrinkled into an aproximation of her father's frown.
She imagined Colonel Corazon probably slept in a bare hab cube, no bed. She had met her once, just in passing - an inspection tour of Sonia's division. It had felt like the woman had lightning balled up behind her grey eyes, a tiger in her stride. Everything a Spartan should be.
She stepped out the door into the Hab complex corridor, and made her way towards the mess. Meals were communal, here. She had hated eating on her own in her cover as a security consultant in the Morgan Transportation hab. It felt so furtive. Like a dog that had stolen the meat from its own pack. But, in Morgan Transportation, there was no communal mess. Meals were private, Nutri-meat lumps swimming in TastyFresh gravy, slurped back in the cramped mini-kitchen of a hab cube. Even Hive food, in its grey, numerically-labeled containers, was an improvement over TastyFresh.
The mess hall was raucous, tonight. She had forgotten how good Spartans looked - the high average level of athleticism made plain people striking, attractive people beautiful. Two soldiers, a woman and a man, both augmented, were circling topless in a circle of onlookers, teeth slightly bared, hands held in Spartan Close Stance 5.
Morganites had a taboo about breasts. In Spartan society, they were no more erotic than an ear, or shoulder.
There was a cheer as the woman managed to get some good strikes in, the heels of her right palm blurring out in chopping motions that the man barely fended off. With a shock of recognition, Sonia realized the man was Gunner, an old friend and partner. He was faking being hurt more than he was. Loved his tricks, did Gunner.
The woman pressed her attack. Too young, too wowed by the power of her augmented frame, to see the ruse. She struck with a flurry of blows, brute power that Gunner barely slid away from.
Gunner stumbled back, looking punch drunk.
Sonia could see her shifting into the form for a high kick. The woman wanted to end this one with style. A high kick wasn't even in the Close manual. It was a move you used when you wanted to prove that you were so much stronger than your opponent, you could take them out off-balance.
A contemptuous sort of strike. Spartans always had a cruel streak. Most grew out of it. Some grew into it. Some turned it into precision.
Gunner's face was covered in blood, but she could see from the corners of his eyes that he saw it, and he was laughing.
The woman span into the kick, and her eyes widened as Gunner burst into motion, catching the leg mid-air and bearing her down into the ground.
Two seconds letter, the woman tapped out. Gunner offered his hand, and she spat, furious, before stalking off.
He wiped his face off, and pulled a shirt on, before coming to sit down at Sonia's table. He had a new scar on his face, ugly and twisted.
"Thought I saw you cheering me on."
"Me? I was cheering the girl."
"She's a firecracker, ain't she? Newest member of the team. Saw her in action on the holo-field, brought her in as soon as she was out of the accademy."
"That strike she went for was stupid. Overconfident."
"Shit, and you weren't, at that age? She's a fucking prodigy. She'll level out, then she'll be untouchable."
Sonia thought back to the days when she was in Gunner's squad, and simmilar humiliations at his hands in the ring. The old bastard had probably set the whole situation up to teach the poor girl humility. Always went the extra mile for the talented ones, did Gunner.
"What happened to your face?" Sonia gestured at the scar that punched into one cheek.
"Got hit by some Mortar shrapnel when we were taking Garland Crater from Miriam's people. Hurt like a bitch, but it's healed up pretty, eh?"
"Positive boon to a mug like yours," said Sonia. "You ever heard of this concept called cover?"
"Heard of it. Decided I didn't need it, robust physique like mine."
Gunner's body certainly had enough scars on it to give credit to that idea.
"Gunner you old fucker! I heard you had died!" came the roaring voice of Thorson. He came barrelling over and grabbed the older man in a bear hug.
"Take more than a tac-nuke to finish me," said Gunner.
"You didn't tell me about this," said Sonia, one eyebrow raised.
"Gunner here got caught in a tac-nuke set off by some suicidal whackjob covering the Believer retreat from Lord's Prayer. Everybody thinks he's dead, then two weeks later, he comes driving out of the desert in a nicked Rover, right as rain." Thorson waved one big paw absently at Gunner's scar, "save for that shit on his face."
"Women love scars," said Gunner.
"Keep telling yourself that," said Sonia.
"Wasn't that why you went for him?" asked Thorson, "the stitchwork?"
"Daddy issues and a lack of good sense," grumbled Sonia.
"Well, now the two of you have got me cut down to size, how about we go get shitfaced?" Gunner put his arms around Thorson and Sonia's shoulders, and steered them towards the bar.
"What are we drinking to?"
"Spartan fucking military superiority, and superior fucking booze!" shouted Thorson.
