Veraa was dully aware of several loud thumps out in the corridor, and realised that it was a fist on the door of the next room. She heard a muffled voice call out something to whoever was inside. Then, of course, she woke up fully and realised that it was somebody warning Amy that her flight would be leaving in a few hours. Veraa’s wrist was right in front of her nose, and her watch was saying that it was zero-eight-hundred; the shuttle was scheduled to leave at eleven. She sat up in bed, considering going back across to her room to make sure Amy got up. Tahj stirred as she moved, rubbing his eyes and looking up at her sleepily. “Hey. Oh, wow, I feel sick,” he muttered.
She rolled her eyes and smiled at him. “Gosh, how romantic,” she said drily. “Go on, I won’t laugh if you have to go throw up.”
“Nah, I’m fine. You know what I really want right now?”
“What?”
“Crackers and fish paste, from the ration packs.”
“Augh! Don’t start, I’ve been craving some decent fish since we hit the surface.”
“Britannic fish is terrible. They smoke it and pickle it, awful.”
“Granted, but they also batter and fry it, which I hear is actually their national dish when you serve it with a side of chips.”
“Part of me wants to say you’re being sarcastic, but another part wants to believe you.”
She shrugged affably. “Either way, today, we eat fish. It’s decided.”
“Well, we’d better do it while we’re still on-world, because it’ll only get worse. You do know what the Caledonians do to their fish, right?”
Veraa made a face. “Yeah, well, they also sew animal guts inside other animal guts and then cook it until you can’t tell which guts are which.”
Before the conversation took a turn for the nightmarish, they decided to get up and check on Amy and O’Dell. Tahj was careful to put on a shirt and jeans before they went over; turning up half-naked might give someone the wrong impression.
They found Amy bundled up under the covers in Veraa’s bed, alone, still fast asleep. O’Dell turned out to be stretched out on his belly on the bathroom tiles, naked as the day he was born, one hand limply gripping the toilet seat, vomit pooled around his head. Both Veraa and Tahj cringed when they found him. “Looks like he never made it,” she said.
“You go wake Amy, I’ll handle him. Though a towel would be appreciated. Maybe two.”
She nodded and went to fetch one from the kitchenette. “Standby.”
Two towels came flying into the bathroom, and Tahj’s first action was to wrap one around his buddy’s waist. Then, and only then, did he begin mopping up. Veraa gently woke Amy and explained that the shuttle was leaving in just under three hours.
Soon, O’Dell was naked again and slumped in the running shower, while Tahj stood at the bathroom door. Veraa helped Amy to stumble into her Marine-issue tracksuit and take a seat at the table. The table itself was still littered with the carnage of the previous night’s battle, most of which Veraa scooped up and dumped. Two mugs of strong coffee had a positive effect on Amy, and soon she was organising her bags and laying out her shore duty uniform.
By the time Amy was squared away and all buttoned up in her uniform, O’Dell was squeaky-clean and fully-clothed, though still a little shell-shocked. Tahj looked like he was going to need therapy. Everyone gave Amy a big hug, and a few quiet tears were shed, before they called a steward droid up to the room and had her seabags loaded onto a trolley. Standing at the door, eyes red from drink and tears, Amy sniffled and cracked off a sharp salute. Her friends saluted in return, and she walked away down the hall with the steward and trolley in tow.
Life on the Fringes 