Her attitude was encouraging, I hoped others felt the same. The two pallets of food, mostly MREs, that we'd brought aboard the Dodo would need to be rationed, with priority being given to the wounded. For sure, I was going to set an example by eating nothing but sludge, or 'smoothies'; if the crew saw their commander was sharing the pain, they'd take it better. For now, I decided the crew would be limited to one real meal per day, and see how that went.

"Joe, I didn't realize this would be a significant problem. Let me play with the food synthesizers and see what flavors I can make."

"Chocolate would be good. Everybody likes chocolate, right?" I suggested.

"The cocoa bean is a subtle and complex flavor, I'll do what I can."

"Fine, great. I'll be your taste tester," I volunteered. "Now, is there a gym on the bucket, or someplace we can make into a gym? People need exercise, and we'll need space to practice combat tactics."

"There is nothing like a gym, the Thuranin rely on their cybernetics rather than muscles. One of the cargo compartments is mostly empty, and I can get the robots to clear more space by tossing stuff into space, we don't need any of that cargo. For running, there is an access corridor that runs the length of the ship's spine, next to the tram, I can open and close airlock doors as people run between sections."

That was good news, running sprints was good exercise. Exercise I needed myself.

"Sir, I'd like to handle setting up a gym," Adams volunteered.

"Very well, Sergeant, you do that. I'm going to check on our wounded." I was eager to view the Thuranin medical facilities that Skippy had been raving about. We had brought nothing more than basic first aid kits with us, if anyone needed a blood transfusion, we would be in trouble. So many, so many things, even seemingly little things, could go disastrously wrong on this mission. And it was all my responsibility.

On my way back to the bridge, I called Simms via zPhone and asked her to meet me in the corridor. “Major, I need your advice.”

“What about?” She replied, and I could see in her eyes the discomfort we both felt, about me being her commanding officer.

“The Thuranin.”

Now her eyes reflected a discomfort for a different reason. “What to do with them.” It wasn’t phrased as a question.

“Legally, and morally. Maybe, more legally? Shit, I don’t know.” What kind of morality applies among alien species that are vastly apart on the technological development scale? Where the technogically superior species could wipe out the inferior species with laughably minimal effort?

“I hate to ask this, but have you asked, uh, Skippy?” She suggested. “He’s surely memorized every US Army and UNEF regulation on the books.”