The Coleridge mess hall’s enlisted crew entrance is through her aft bulkhead, and features the only vacuum-sealed batwing doors in the Charybdis cluster. They bang open to reveal an uncharacteristically grouchy Space Lizard, followed closely by a three-meter-long ginger felinoid who seems to know his way around.
Gazes are met and assessed. Note is taken of certain occupants.
“Aw, hell.”
“Maybe I should do the talking, Boss.”
“Who you calling Boss, Jones? I don’t have an XO anymore.”
“Scylla’s phallus, Boss, what the hell did I do?”
“Nothin’, furball. I ain’t got an XO, 'cause I ain’t got a command anymore. We scrapped the O’Mortson, remember?”
“Not likely to forget. That shitheap leaked like a sieve. The low cabin pressure made me shed all over the place.”
“I ain’t likely to forget that part either. Still siftin’ yer pelt outta my oatmeal. Anyway, we’re both swabbies right now. Enlisted crew. Hell, you ain’t even enlisted, tagalong.”
“I just wanna check things out. You know how I feel about blind commitments.”
“Yeah, well, this is lookin’ like a barrel-scraper here. Lookit these losers. Spiner. Robo-nanner. Hatrack. Ball-balancer.”
“Racist.”
“Yeah, wouldn’t surprise me, over behind those godforsaken humans…”
“No, I mean you, you unreconstructed reprobate. “Spiner” is hardly the preferred nomenclature for the Space Cactus. And you call a moose a hatrack in its earshot, you’re gonna find your own head mounted above the fireplace in its billiard room.”
“Hell, mooses ain’t that tough. Oh, hey, look. There’s a mutt.”
“…”
“Why don’tcha go over and say hi, Jonesy?”
“…”
“Go on. Looks friendly. Erudite, too. And come to think of it, you two might have somethin’ in common. A certain kinda cute furriness…”
Hiss.
“Hey, rein it in, Jones. No need to be gettin’ all xenophobic now. This is a civilized planet, says so right there on top of every Wanted poster. Just kinda… blend in. Stay away from the Perfesser, if ya gotta. Maybe we can sit over… hey! How 'bout that… Kumquat’s here!”
“Kum what?”
“Quirky Kumquat, my nineteenth cousin. Good egg. Hell of a pilot.”
“Where?”
“Over behind the humans, and that dude with the red claws. Talkin’ to… aw, shit.”
“What now, Boss? You step in somethin’?”
“Of all the… Orion’s Gonads, is this trip gonna be worth it? Mark Freakin’ Watney? That asshole? I thought Mars was too small for the two of us, and he shows up all the way out here?”
“Ease off, Boss. Live and let live. Let me buy ya a drink. Whyn’t you go catch up with whatshisname the fruit lizard?”
“Sure. And you go play fetch with the quadruped academic.”
“Wanna see if that tail of yours can grow back a sixth time, Boss?”
“Kiss my cloaca.”
“Tropical coolant?”
“With a straw. Thanks.”
Tex Ass slid into a corner booth and eyed his potential crewmates sourly. Quirky was always good for laughs, most of the rest of these clowns were still blank slates, but Watney…
Watney might be a problem.
