"Wheeee!" Deanna screamed and touched her toes cheerleader style as she did the splits in the air. The ride was more like a parabolic flight trajectory to simulate weightlessness than it was a roller coaster. It was like putting a children's moonbounce in the back of a flatbed truck and then driving it across seriously unleveled and rocky terrain. Add to that the extremely dim lighting in the belly of the robot spider-thing, accentuated by the bouncing white lights of the e-suit helmets, and the effect was a full-up bouncing disco on steroids. The only thing missing was the dance music. At least it stunk.
"How much further?" Joanie asked. The bouncing was beginning to take a toll on her physical strength. She was sweating profusely in her suit, but the seal layer would absorb that and reclaim the water and salts.
"Almost there." BIL replied over the speaker system.
"So BIL." Alexander was making a point to minimize his physical effort as he might need his strength later so he had let the bouncing of the beast throw him around and used his jumpboots to soften the landings. If the giant bug had been equipped with seats this ride would have been a snap. "Tell me more about your outside contacts. When was the last one you had?"
"Well, I get them pretty much continuously. It is a big system." It was obvious that the AI had longed to talk because he took twice as long to say what needed to be said. "This morning I received an alert that there were no loads of frozen algae coming in from Elysium and a few seconds ago I was given instruction that there was a need in Luna City for aluminum, iron, and titanium. I've called the shipping companies trying to schedule a barge but for some reason they are all grounded today." BIL's voice sounded as if he had shrugged when he made the last statement.
"Wait a minute, BIL. You just a few seconds ago talked to Luna City?" Senator Moore asked.
"Yes."
Abigail!
Yes sir, I heard it. I'll talk directly with him to get access to his communications protocols. Perhaps we could get some communications outside this jamming phenomena. Moore had confidence that his AIC understood what she needed to do. She just had to convince the AI garbage hauler to cooperate. The way the poor AI was longing for attention it probably would agree to anything within the law and maybe even then some. And if he was communicating outside the jamming field then that meant that the Separatists techs had missed the infrastructure layer of communications. Unless they had missed it on purpose.
Hull Technician Third Class Joe Buckley was reading over his current set of orders that were continuously being updated by the brains up in the Looney Bin. Typically, his orders were always the same whether or not the Madira was going to battle or not. But then again, the Sienna Madira was always going into battle, or at least it had been ever since he had been on board her. His duties were actually quite simple. He was to make sure the reclamation systems were not overflowing and that there were no deficiencies in the materials bins. In other words, make sure the sewer didn't get too full of shit and that the officers had plenty of toilet paper. He also was in charge of keeping the ship's coolant flow systems operational. But, also being in charge of sewer duties meant that he often had to put up with a lot of shit—in more ways than one.
Joe prayed for the days where his spot in the flight deck cleaning rotation was due. On those lovely days he would get to walk back and forth on the upper flight catapults picking up trash, removing bird shit—those hybrid Martian vultures were nasty critters—and checking for exterior hull plates that were outgassing that weren't supposed to be outgassing. Yes, those days were bliss compared to his weeks at a time in the "shithole." Otherwise he never saw the outside of the ship.
Looks like another shitty day. His AIC told the same old, very old, joke that she had told him every day for the entire sixteen months of Buckley's tour on the Madira.
Yeah. Into the never-ending fray for God and Country we go. Forever protecting our best's and brightest's wonderful shithole! he recited. Mija, it looks like we are about to get really into the thick of some bad stuff so we better start running the combat readiness flush and purge sequences.
Buckley scrolled through the daily task orders in his planner. The battle drill was simple. Batten down all the toilet lids, which was a euphemism for turning valves to certain plumbing systems. And to close up the shitter so that when the ship started listing left, right, and up, and down that smelly stuff didn't burst out of the miles of plumbing throughout the massive ship or rupture the Olympic-swimming- pool-sized septic bladder.
Roger that, Joe, Petty Officer Third Class Mike India Juliet Alpha Kilo One Tango Edgar, "Mija Kitty," replied.
Buckley and Mija had been through hours of training classes explaining how any excess human waste in the plumbing system during high g-force compensation maneuvers could stress the structural integrity of the plumbing system and therefore create a smelly safety hazard during a combat situation. On more than several occasions they had been in the wrong corridor at the wrong time when the plumbing failed because some deck petty officer on a different shift neglected to flush the system, purge it with compressed dry air, and then lock it down before a maneuver. Buckley was often jeered at for having a "shitty job," and needless to say, he kept his immunobooster shot current and gave it a good workout. But Buckley took to heart the words the captain had proclaimed on several occasions in all-hands briefings, "There is no job on my boat that is less important than any other. Remember, this is the flagship of the United States Space Naval Fleet." Buckley repeated that to himself every night before he could manage to go to sleep. He managed to maintain a level of pride about the job he did. Hell, it was an important job. What if a flow system went out near some important electronics system? There were toilets, sinks, and disposals on every deck and getting the refuse moved around safely without damaging other complex technical systems on board the supercarrier was indeed serious business. Perhaps it wasn't a glamorous job like being a fighter jock, but his life expectancy was a hell of a lot higher.
Buckley was just finishing up the organization of his battle plan task list when the order of his tasks reshuffled and slipped each order down a notch on the screen in front of him.
"Aw shit. I just got those straightened out and prioritized. Now what?" He rolled his eyes, leaned back in his chair and sighed.
Looks like we have a new order request, Joe. It appears to be from the Mons City Rec and Redist AI, Mija told him. She was just as surprised as Buckley was.
Order number one was an information packet from the Mons City reclamation and redistribution tracking AI, of all places, marked "Deliver to Captain Sienna Madira Immediately."
Mija, can you open this? This isn't some kinda joke, is it? The hull technician petty officer third class had seen his share of tasteless jokes.
Okay, Joe. Here. Mija Kitty paused for a second. I don't think this is a joke!
"What the hell," Buckley muttered to himself.
"That is un-fucking-believable, sir! And out-goddamned-standing if you don't mind my saying it." Sergeant Jackson couldn't believe what he was hearing. This Senator Moore, as it turns out USMC Major Moore retired, had somehow managed to find a crack in the local Seppy jamming field and was in direct contact with the Sienna Madira's captain.
"You got that right, Sergeant. Tammie has Burner's AIC continuously linked with the Madira now. We do have an extraction plan. And we have a means to coordinate the other troops across the region back to the main fleet. I might have to move to Mississippi so I can vote for this Marine," Second Lieutenant Thomas Washington said.