The elevator ride up nineteen decks is swift, and as you follow Karim out onto Two Deck you marvel at how different this part of the ship looks. Gone is the vast, open expanse of the strike deck, replaced by narrow passageways crowded with crewmen in the blue coveralls of the Fleet. They make space as you and Karim thump by in your armor, and you notice a few scowls on faces. Inter-service rivalry between Fleet and Corps is alive and well, you realize.
Well, you think suddenly, maybe if these Fleet wimps ever strapped on some armor and fought hand to hand, they'd be worthy of your respect. You stare at a sailor as he passes by, but your mind is flooded with the image of a rebel soldier screaming as your bullet blew through him. It was intense down there, and you suddenly can't hold back the images of smoke, fire, and blood. The corridor seems to spin, and you just manage to get a hand up as you collapse against a bulkhead. Your stomach heaves and bile splashes on the deck at your feet.
Somebody shouts a protest, and you hear Karim's deep voice barking in rebuke. You think he orders someone to clean this mess up, and then you feel his strong hand on your shoulder.
"Nubes, you okay?"
"Yeah," you gasp, straightening to look at him. You wipe the acidic moisture from your lips and take a deep breath. "I'm fine. Sorry, sir."
"It's okay," he says with an understanding grin. "It took half a bottle of whiskey for me to puke after my first drop—you're just saving yourself some time."
"I'm good, sir," you say. "Ready for the briefing."
He pats you on the shoulder and leads you away from the mess. You spot a sailor approaching with a mop and bucket, and you studiously avoid his gaze.
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