My last class of the day cleared out quickly. Literature wasn't a bad class, all in all, but it couldn't compare to having some free time. I jogged to my room, changed into a clean set of workout clothes, and headed for the bay.

"Tiamat, are there any house rules I should know about?" The Imperial Service had a downloadable, standardized set of rules, but most ships had one or more rules modified to account for the shape of the space she used as an arena, the composition of her crew, or even just for personal taste.

Tiamat was no exception. "The main bay is large enough for four big arenas, so I use force planes to carve it up. At that size, they won't stop anyone bigger than a Junior unless they're going slow, but the flare if you pass through lets everyone know you've disengaged."

"Standard half-point rule for disengagement?"

"Yes. The Juniors keep wanting to reduce it since the fields are so big, but the Seniors always outvote them."

I smiled as I ran. "Navigation errors?"

"Right again; they've always worked it out by their Senior hitch. Because the arenas are so big, and don't have any obstacles to speak of, cables are allowed."

"Even with Juniors playing? What if one of them gets it stuck around his neck?"

Fingernails drummed across a desk; the sound generated just for me. "Juniors don't move fast enough for it to be a problem. Middies and Seniors can make up their classwork in the infirmary if they are injured."

"Harsh. I've never been allowed to use cables before. I've seen a few matches with them, though. Once a Marine forgot to duck and got his head sheared clean off." The moment I mentioned decapitation, the ghost of fear trickled down my spine, but the disabling panic I dreaded failed to materialize. I wasn't well, but I was better than I had been yesterday.

"Anything else?"

"No, everything else is by the book. One ball per player per side, hit someone it's one point and they're out, catch someone else's throw it for two points and they're out. Deflections with the ball are allowed."

I shrugged. "Not too different than Glaucus. Are there any games on right now?"

"A class of sixth year Juniors are playing, as are two of the Senior teams. The top ranked Middie team has challenged one of the Senior teams to a match, but they haven't started yet. There are also half a dozen players looking for a pick-up game."

I picked up the pace. I wasn't on a team, so I needed to arrive before the group found ten players. The corridors blurred when I hit my stride; I was more worried about arriving late than winded. The hall leading to the main bay was large, intended to allow the entire population of the ship easy access in emergencies. The hall passed through a pair of ninety degree turns at each major block of levels, a safety feature if we were ever boarded. At the first I bounced off the wall facing the cross passage, my leap carrying me over the first heavy coaming concealing a blast door. Each cross passage had three of those coamings. They inconvenienced the walking traffic, but my leaping run carried me straight over each of them.

The hall widened even further once I got into Senior territory. Out of long habit I kept to the middle, flashing past Seniors sporting a rainbow of hair colors. With all the thought I'd given to correcting my clone-father's tampering, I'd never thought about changing my hair color. A male Senior with a crest of stiff, coruscating hair along the top of his head drew my eyes. My flame red might not stand out as much as it did among the relatively bland Middie crowd.

In short order I reached the end of the Senior decks and the corridor jogged to the side once more. Three more long leaps and I entered Instructor territory. I sprinted down the center of the eight-meter-wide corridor, moving far too fast to catch anything but glimpses down the few open side corridors. The first year of my life I'd visited often, almost as frequently as Grace visited me. Those visits had the hazy edges of memories loaned to adults and returned to me when I was old enough to retain them. I hadn't been back since except passing through to the bay.

I passed through three massive coamings. At each a standing force field tickled across the surface of my skin, and gravity shifted slightly. As I broke through the last, I tucked into a ball and rolled through the air, my feet finally coming down on a floor tilted ninety degrees from that in the corridor. The bay stretched out above me; all four walls honeycombed with smaller maintenance alcoves. Most were closed, the Imperial Marine emblem, a galactic swirl wrapped about by an artists' rendition of a wormhole, etched into the armor plate of their doors. A few stood open, some with small classes working the practical aspects of advanced Armoring, others with one or more members of a squad doing maintenance on their armor.

Twenty bodies, made small by distance and distorted by intervening fields, hurtled through the air above me, dull red balls flashing through the space between them. The distinctive 'ploink' of the balls impacting each other, the walls, and skin trickled through the fields as well. Two dozen smaller students hovered in midair; their own game mostly forgotten as they watched the Seniors play. After a minute or so without any Juniors throwing or being tagged out, Tiamat's voice sounded through the bay.

"If you don't want to play, you'll have to forfeit your court to someone who wants it."

That comment set them into motion, a flurry of 'ploinks' echoing through the chamber as every Junior with a ball unloaded at once. Few of them hit anything, and one or two even sent themselves backward into the wall in reaction. Quiet chuckles and amused commentary drew my gaze back down to the deck.

The floor around me held maintenance bays as well, but by long standing tradition those were reserved for command staff, small craft, and equipment. All but two were shut, providing a wide, level space on which most of the off-duty crew congregated. A wave of sounds and smells washed over me. Most of both came from a small group gathered around some kind of metal contraption, a barrel laid on its side, propped up with stilts. One of the senior crew, a maintenance tech named Daniel Harkness, flipped up one half of the barrel and I froze, entirely natural terror engulfing me as a puff of smoke filled the air, flames licking out from the bottom half of the barrel.

Unauthorized duplication: this narrative has been taken without consent. Report sightings.

I stared, entranced, as Harkness reached into the barrel, adjusted something, and closed the lid once more. The smoke, obvious now I knew what to look for, curled lazily up until it bumped up against the dodge ball arena's force field 'floor'. Ventilation fans pulled it through a grating in one corner of the room.

"Tiamat, are you aware SFC Harkness has an open flame in the bay?"

Tiamat's reply was so slow in coming, I worried I'd offended her. "Peripherally, yes. I'm told his chipotle is the best in the Dragon. If you're not worried about motion sickness, I'd recommend trying some."

My guts writhed not from the thought of motion, but from the suspicion Harkness wasn't cooking synthesized proteins. The sight of flames licking out from beneath the half-barrel lid wasn't helping things, either. "How can you allow open flame on board?"

"You mean you've never seen a cookout on a barbeque grill before? I swear, I'm going to tear Glaucus a new bay if I ever get my hands on him. Despite millennia of civilization, fire still holds an atavistic thrill for humans. It's why I still stock incendiary rounds, even if there are almost always more efficient options."

I inched closer and steeled myself. When Harkness flipped open the lid of his barbeque grill, I forced myself to stare at the flames. No child in the service needed to be taught to despise, even fear clutter and flame. Both were anathema on a starship. As I watched Harkness tend the fire, however, I began to feel a strange attraction to the flickering yellow-red glow. I'd never seen an open flame except in memory and on a video screen. Neither compared to the live, flickering thing I saw before me now.

Harkness reached in and brushed sauce onto one of the slabs of meat. It started thick, a gooey paste lumped atop the browning mass, but within moments it melted, soaking into the meat, dribbling down the sides. Drops fell, and the fire licked hungrily upward to meet them. It danced and played, sending sparks floating into the air, only to have Harkness snatch them bare handed and squeeze them out of existence.

I was still staring, entranced, when a huge paw landed on my shoulder.

"Captain! It's good to see you on your feet!"

Quick's touch shocked me out of my fugue. I held myself still to keep from jumping, but inside I panted air filled with the sharp scent of fear. I looked over my shoulder to where he stood, a broad smile on his face. His good mood infected me, banished my fear, replaced it with renewed eagerness to get up into the arena. I smiled back, grateful for his welcome.

"It's good to be on them again, Quick. I didn't expect you to be here."

His brow creased. "Why not?"

"Like you said, you're a big target out there. I didn't think dodge ball would be your game." I kept my smile up, trying to take the sting out of my words. Speaking of stings, my nostrils still tingled, and not from fear. The aroma of Harkness' barbeque wafted through the air, and my mouth watered even as my nose burned.

"I'm not here for the game. Not to play. I might watch some later. Officially, I'm here to do some maintenance and mods on my armor."

"And unofficially?"

"I'm here for Uncle Dan's barbeque."

I frowned a little at his familiarity. "Uncle? You mean SFC Harkness?"

From next to the barbeque the subject of our conversation called out, "No rank in the mess!"

A few marines in the crowd around him repeated the call, all of them laughing as they did. I turned away; my shoulders hunched. I spotted a smaller group of Middies, all wearing sweats, standing around conversing. A moment of study and I recognized each of them from pictures. Al Frost, a pale lanky kid, already up to my shoulder despite his recent promotion from the Juniors. Nearly his opposite, dark-skinned Gar Ross barely came up to my chest, even though he would stand for promotion to Senior before my own delayed promotion. David Carver, right at the twelve-year midpoint of his Middie years, stood taller than Al, but wide enough to look shorter. Prior to meeting Quick I would have called him a fireplug.

All three were Noobs. They each showed a variety of talents, but none of the three had picked a career path yet. Except for Ross, they had plenty of time. I'd planned on advising him to specialize in Unarmored Combat, where his size would gain him some advantages, but until I spoke with him, I couldn't judge for myself whether his temperament was right for the work.

The other five Middies were all Retreads, and it showed. They possessed a sameness, even though no two had quite the same hair or eye color, and no two were quite the same height. Two decades ago, an old bit of animated military fiction had a resurgence, and both male and female Retreads started going for a blocky, powerful look, with skin tones in various pastel shades and hair colors complementing their skin, but in bright jewel tones. Tony Rides was olive and emerald green, and intended to shift from Armored Assault to Supply this time around. On the other hand, Jodi Mull and her girlfriend Wendi Back, both mauve and amethyst, intended to stay out on the sharp end of things. Taymer Williams, pale and royal blue, said he intended to do another tour in Research, of all things, and Denny Card, with slate skin and obsidian hair, actually intended to give up her old Command career for Quick's beloved Armoring.

It's a good thing it's not my job to make those decisions, just to help others make them happen. Mostly I do that with Noobs. Sadly, I don't have much more usable, practical experience than they do, but I've studied a lot.

The other Middies spotted Quick long before they recognized me. My face had been stuck in a computer learning theirs for the past two weeks. When we got close, Denny blinked and took half a step back before recovering.

"Sorry, sir, didn't recognize you." She didn't salute, but outside of the Middie levels she wasn't required to.

I responded with a rolled shoulder and a throwing away gesture. "Are you the ones putting together a pick-up game?"

"Yeah, but we're shy two players." Surprise widened her eyes. "Are you interested?"

"It's why I'm out here today. I need to get some exercise outside the gym for once." No other Middies knew about Doctor Andrews' orders, and none of them needed to.

Carver piped up, his voice still boyish despite his size, "How did you convince him to play?"

I turned to Quick, who frowned at me, consternation clear. I couldn't force him to play, and we both knew it. "I didn't. He's just walking me over, telling me how good Harkness' barbeque is."

"You didn't have any, did you?" I wasn't looking, so I couldn't tell if Jodi or Wendi asked the question, but both stared at me, waiting for an answer.

"No, why?"

This time Wendi spoke, "Last time we did, Jodi got sick all over the arena."

"I suppose I'll avoid it then."

"Don't let them fool you, Captain. They both got sick, but it was from the motion of the game on a full stomach, not from the food." They both glared at Quick, but before they could do more than that, Denny cut in.

"That's too bad. The Juniors keep stalling, mostly to keep their view of the Seniors. There's only one field open, and if we don't grab it soon there's a challenge match coming up that will snatch it away from us." She looked genuinely upset. Then again, she might not get many chances to come up here; Command and Armoring didn't have much in common, so she was stuck certifying in an entirely new set of fields.

I turned to Quick. "I know you had plans, but do you think you could join us?"

"I thought you said I was a big target?"

"Oh, I'm sure I can hold up your end if I have to."

A low whistle sounded from the direction of the Noobs. They thought I was cocky. They had no idea; for sixteen years I'd almost lived this game. On a dodge ball court my freakishness became a huge advantage, and no one realized until they played against me. The taste of copper cable filled my mouth. I needed this game. I couldn't force Quick, though, not after flaking out on him in the gym. Not after he'd carried me to the infirmary.

Just before I turned back to Denny to apologize for wasting her time, Quick took one last, longing look at his uncle's barbeque, then turned back to me.

"Okay. Let's do this thing."