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The marines each slowly wake from the numbness of hypersleep. A few of the soldiers automatically check the time/date indicators in the freeze chamber. None are surprised to see that the Gaines has only been in transit six weeks out of the colony at Ketta Ketta.
The Sarge will be the first to find out why the trip was interrupted, so for the rest of the grunts, they've got precisely 22 minutes to stretch and shower before breakfast.
As one of the first Marines to awaken, Sabo pulls himself upright in his cocoon, singing, "Home sweet home!" He practically leaps from the cryo tube and starts to run in place and do jumping jacks, anything
to get his blood moving and keep his feet off the ice cold floor. "Man, I can't wait to get down there. Why don't they have any
goddamn windows-" He's cut short, noticing the time readout in the freeze chamber. "No way, man. I'm going back to bed..."
Leon scratches his head and takes note of the mission time. He briefly glances over at the other Marines, nodding at Sergeant Moore
in the next cocoon. The android deliberately leaves the room without comment, making his way to his locker, and then to the showers.
Patwardhan, the medtech, yawns and climbs down from her cryo tube.
She looks at her watch. "Weren't we supposed to be in stasis for six more weeks?" she asks, her accent that of someone who learned their English from a Brit rather than an American. Suddenly realizing that this is a rather pointless question to ask, she doesn't wait for a response before continuing her stretching routine. It's an elaborate exercise that seems heavily influenced by yoga, and highlights the
medtech's amazing flexibility, even with the stiffness that comes after cryo sleep. She doesn't partake in the playful insults that the rest of the squad engages in, but does smile slightly when someone makes a particularly good joke.
"Up, up, up!" shouts Moore. "Vitelli, get up. Get up!" He prods the rookie comtech in the back with an icy forefinger, and alternately slaps or pats other lazy troops as he strolls by them. "No speech
today, marines. The Gaines is telling me we're still a long way from home. You know what that means. If you aren't in the mess hall at oh six twenty, you better be sitting in the stockade." He heads off for
his private briefing room, giving a cursory, "Morning, Fleming," to
the lieutenant along the way.
McKenzie watches as the sarge makes his way past the troop cryo
tubes, barking orders and insults the whole way.
"Man, oh, man," says the smartgunner, "This is gonna be sweet!"
"That's what I like to hear," Moore says, giving Booths a friendly slap on the cheek.
"What are you talking about, Mac?" groans APC operator Berliner from the next cocoon.
"They wouldn't have pulled us out six weeks short for nothing," McKenzie explains. "We're gonna get into some real shit this time, I just know it. I can't wait to see some action. Man, oh, man!"
Berliner's not having any of it. "When you get out of the shower, rookie, be sure to dry behind your ears." He pulls an arm behind his head, stretching out stiff tissue. McKenzie, psyched and ready, jogs
off toward his locker, a grin spreading from ear to ear. Berliner mutters to himself, "The more I hear from McKenzie, the more I miss Ringo. That was a marine who knew when to keep his fuckin' mouth
shut. Yo, Booths, did I ever tell you about that drop we did at Salus...?"
Morrison, in charge of explosives and incendiaries, crawls out of his
cryo tube slowly, massaging the muscles in his back after being
motionless for weeks. "About damn time," he grunts. The thought of
shore leave creeps into his mind and his frown vanishes. Soon enough,
he thinks, he'll be hanging out with his buddies back home.
He stands to stretch his legs and glances at the date display, but
something seems to be wrong with it, and he leans forward to get a
better look. Then he does some quick math in his head. "Brimstone,"
he calls out. "Why the hell are we out of cryo so early? Corporal?
Hey, Sarge, where are you going?"
"Can it, Morrison," says the lieutenant. "That's an order." He wastes
no time, grabbing a change of clothes from his locker and moving off
for his officer's briefing.
Morrison, incredulous, watches Fleming depart, and hurls a rude
gesture at him.
Vitelli rises from his cocoon bed looking like the undead, his face
unshaved, his hair a dark whirl. He rubs some crust out of his eye
and begins to peel the sleep sensors off his skin.
"Fuck," he gasps, setting foot onto the floor. "It's freezing like a
mother." His voice is heavy with a Brooklyn accent, but anyone can
see by his golden brown skin and dark features that he didn't fall
far from the Italian peninsula.
He looks down the line of cocoons, his own being the last along the
wall, and nods a hello to those who return his gaze. "Another day in
the Marine Corps," he says proudly, which elicits a smile from
medtech Patwardhan, already moving to her locker, visibly sloughing
off the shakes.
Vitelli's voice drops an octave. "What the fuck was I thinking?" he
grates sarcastically. He breathes hot air into his cupped palms,
rubbing them for warmth. He then launches into a short jog to his
locker, where he pulls on his fatigues.
The dropship pilot coughs, brushing a hand through his hair. A
crucifix hangs around his neck from a simple gold chain, gently
clattering against his dog tags as he gets to his feet. On his way to
the showers, he strips his clothes, fully nude before he's even made
it to his locker. Somebody whistles, but he finds it easy to ignore,
still suffering from the after effects of the long sleep.
Booths dimly hears the cryo cocoon cycling its way open.
Home? is the first thought to come into his wakening mind. Prying
open sleep fogged eyes, he throws a glance at the chronometer.
"What the fuck....?" A groan follows the rhetoric exclamation. Most
of the others are already up. Fringes of conversation drift to him.
Berliner's little barbs reach him with unnatural clarity. "The God's
own truth," adds Booths, too softly to be heard.
He pulls himself upright at last, rotating his head on his neck. Two
ugly cracking sounds accompany the movement. "Oh, yeah...."
Using the edge of the cryo bunk to brace, he swings his legs up and
around. His body sluggish, the crisp air not helping a bit. Suddenly
he hoots, "Come on, marines, no rest for the wicked!"
With that, he lets himself drop forward, taking the impact on
outstretched hands, and begins to perform two fingered push ups to
get the blood going. Dog tags jingle. Adrenaline surges into his
muscles, tinting his flesh a ruddy red. Completing a set, Booths
stands and works the muscles loose by rolling his shoulders. He then
sets off for the showers, stripping underpants and draping them over
the door of his locker.
Duarte is already there. "Yo," says Booths, ignored in the sounds of
rushing water. "No rest for the wicked, huh?"
When Brimstone wakes, she checks the time and slowly climbs out of
her cryo tube. Before heading toward the showers, she stops and turns
to the medtech. "Private Patwardhan, move your ass! This isn't yoga
school."
She begins to usher the stragglers toward their lockers, making sure
everyone's moving toward the showers before heading in herself.
Sabo leans toward Vitelli and whispers, "What a hard ass. I swear,
when I'm flying, I'm gonna-"
"Shut up," Vitelli tells him.
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