Space Marines

Private Jane squeezed past the other marines and crew in the cramped zero-gee access tubes as she made her way towards her new quarters.

Usually this section had gravity, of sorts, but it's spin had been arrested while the ship was in dry dock. Briefly Jane wondered why it was called that. Space was axiomatically dry. Vacuum was never wet.

She had seen the damage from the stations public cameras, the ablated plating and exposed twisted girders where plasma fire had raked "Piety"s stern. Jane had shuddered at the thought of serving on such a monster. Of dying on it. Fortunately she was command track. By innate ability, by intention, by birth.

But that was a week ago.

Private Jane's thoughts were distracted from their downward spiral. She had reached her destination.

She took a moment to smooth back her slick black pageboy-cut hair from her pale face. And to straighten her uniform. First impressions count.

The Bunks were little more than webbing, three on the left and three on the right, each with small lockers at their feet. Four of the bunks were occupied, one by a skinny girl with a mop of red hair trying to dry a black tanktop with a blow dryer.

Apparently it was her only one. She was naked apart from her black knickers and her boots.

The girl turned to her with a "what-are-you-looking-at" expression. Jane looked away hurriedly.

The locks on the lockers were all broken. She studied the number on her useless key. Her bunk was occupied by the toughest, blackest girl she had ever seen, who could have been asleep but for the slight bopping of her head to whatever juice her headphones were pouring into her.

First impressions count. Jane could be serving months with these people. If she demands her bunk they will probably reckon she is up herself. If she doesn't, maybe they'll think they can push her around.