The Uncouth Corkscrew was calm so early in the morning, despite the fact that it was occupied by marines and spacers gathered in loose clusters around the dining hall. The long tables and benches, instead of being packed with people trying to talk over each other, were populated more like an electron cloud. Any conversation happening appeared to be just coincidences and courtesies.

And, most shocking of all, almost no one was in the kitchen getting food. Everyone was stopping by the SEWR rat dispenser, grabbing a package or two, and moving to a table to sit down and eat silently. The few times that Rogers had been up for breakfast in the past, he had been treated to eggs Benedict, steak and eggs, and, on one special but rather bizarre occasion, Cornish game hen stuffed with chocolate-covered strawberries.^I Nobody would pass that sort of fare up for protein cardboard.

Despite the ominous emptiness of the kitchen, Rogers ventured inside, ordered some eggs and bacon from a very surprised services troop, and found himself a table with a few marines at it.

The moment he sat down, he heard that damn non-word again.

“A-TEN-HOOOAH!”

The entire table jumped up and stood at attention. One of the marines “presented arms” using a fork. To his credit, it looked very snappy.

“Stop that,” Rogers said. “Sit down. Um, carry on. Eat food, march !”

He kept forgetting that he was an officer now. Not only was he not allowed to accomplish anything productive, it was his destiny to continually stop anyone else from doing anything productive simply by walking into rooms or sitting at tables.

The marines exchanged confused, wary glances as they lowered themselves slowly back to the bench, each of them making sure that Rogers’ ass touched the surface before theirs did. It felt strange, engaging in a sort of backward ass-race of who could sit down the slowest.

Not feeling very much like conversation, Rogers dug into some very suspicious-looking eggs for about three seconds before his gag reflex kicked in. Before he could get the second forkful to his mouth, Rogers froze where he sat and stared, aghast, at the monstrosity that was breakfast. Spitting out what hadn’t already slid down his throat, he pointed at the dish and spoke a little too loud.

“This tastes like motor oil!”

One of the marines choked, though whether it was because of Rogers’ comment or because he was eating the aforementioned protein cardboard without drinking enough water, Rogers wasn’t sure.

Peeling back the egg on his plate, Rogers saw with horror that a small gray-black pool of drippings lay hidden below the egg, blending in with the natural grease of the bacon in a way that reminded him of the time when, well, he’d accidentally dropped a piece of bacon into a pool of motor oil in the engineering bay.

“It is motor oil!” Rogers said, standing up in shock.

“A-TEN-HOOOOAAH!”

“Sit down!”

Rogers grabbed his plate and stormed back into the kitchen, suddenly realizing why everyone was reaching for SEWR rats instead of bacon in a 5W-40 reduction sauce.