Postal Marine 1: Bellicose Read Online Free Page A

that I should be thankful?”
    “Yes. Actually, you should. You aren't now, which would not be a first. Despite how you feel now, eventually you will thank Chrachen . At least you got the rest of the day off.” Angel stood and walked past him. He started fanning his nose. “It might take you the rest of the day to clean out that suit, though. Just hose it down and return it to supply for replacement.”
    Setting an example or not, I don't care. That wasn't right.
Bophendze did not see the rest of his team for the next two cycles.
    Bophendze settle into the ship's routine of cleaning and training. After a month on the Spaka , Corporal Makaan was assigned the team leader, a position normally reserved for a sergeant. They did a few training exercises where Bophendze found himself dead more often than not. Not long after, Bophendze's cleaning duties increased. The weeks passed Bophendze unnoticed as his days blurred together in tedium.

    One morning, Angel walked passed the hatch, then came back. “Bophendze, Why are you on your hands and knees?”
    Bophendze looked up. “Corporal Makaan wants ours to be the cleanest berthing area on the ship, and he said the best way was with scrub brush and elbow grease.”
    Angel shook his head. “You'll never have the cleanest area. Team Four hired a civilian to clean their berthing area. I think she used to work for one of the system's wealthier citizens before she ‘aged out.’” He paused briefly. “She looks like she might be one of the team's mother, now that I think of it.”
    “How does that work? Civilians on a combat vessel?”
    “Haven't you noticed? The Marines always manage to have a few civilian contractors on board. She probably uses a spare rack in the contractor's area. If they're not complaining, then she's probably trading their silence for her cleaning skills as well. Command hasn't complained about the arrangement.”
    “If she's working for a couple teams, then she's probably getting paid more than I am, and this is not my day job.”
Why hasn't Makaan not heard of her? She can't be overworked.
    Angel chuckled. “Boph, this is your day job. You do all the odd assignments that need to be done to keep you from getting bored. But, this is the life of a marine. Months of boredom followed by moments of panic. Somebody did a good job lying to you if you signed up for the money.”
    Bophendze stopped scrubbing. He sat straightened up, sitting on his ankles, and dropped the scrub brush into the bucket. “I do this all day, every day.”
    “Then you're the team chogi. If I were you I'd talk to Makaan about getting back into a training rotation. You're not much of a marine if you spend all your time on your knees.”
    Angel's concern continued to amaze him.
I can't believe he's a marine.
“Why are you in the Marines?” Bophendze said.
    “Because the Navy kicked me out.” Angel fixed his gaze on Bophendze. Angel 's usual jovial demeanor ebbed.
    The gaze and the pause started to unnerve Bophendze. He's like a predator. How could he be an angel?
    Angel kept his gaze. “I was a fighter pilot, but they did not like my style so they mustered me out. I felt I still had a few years of service to give the Emperor so I went looking for the next military employer.”
    “A fighter pilot who flies a meat wagon for seventeen years?” Bophendze felt a bit of pride in using the marine slang. Most weapons systems in the Postal arsenal were projectiles anywhere from the frigates 220 millimeter to the battleship's 720 millimeter. Though there were few battleships in the the Postal Service. Missiles were merely self-propelled projectiles. Some of them were “brilliant bombs”—piloted remotely from the mother ship by human pilots. To the typical marine, the troop transports were yet-another-weapon-system, delivering a team of pissed-off marines sent to subdue the bellicose. They called their transports ‘meat wagons’ or ‘meat missiles,’ but not around