Unfinished Business

Chapter Sixteen

“We’re clear, Sir,” the corporal called from the hatchway before he sealed it from the outside with a decisive hiss. Colonel McNab looked around at his dinner companions, and waited for Gizu to look up from his rat’s nest of electronics and nod that they weren’t being electronically overheard. That meant that the “officer’s mess” – an empty cargo locker left over from the Suri Madron’s heyday as a terraforming freighter – was as secure from human and electronic surveillance as was possible in the Brown Zone. Not that that was often a problem – the Administrator and his lackeys didn’t give a dingo’s right testicle about what the prisoners did in their off time – but it was tradition. More, it was good security. McNab ran a sloppy outfit in many ways, but security was one area where he could not be faulted.

Hell, there wasn’t anything better to do.

“All right, ladies and gentlemen, time to tuck in,” he said with a weak grin. “Mr. Gizu assures me that we aren’t being overheard. I think we’re all arrived, now. I therefore call to order the two thousand, three hundred and eighteenth session of the Independent Armed Forces Prisoner Escape Committee and Dining Club.

“Tonight Chef has prepared us a modest repast of green protein soup delicately seasoned with the salt of his tears, an intriguing Type Four protein cutlet in a dashing gray color, complimented by some amusing little protein sticks broiled with multivitamin extract an’ covered with an allegedly cheese-flavored liquid protein, an’ for afters we have a delightful runny yellow protein gelatin that is either authentic artificial lemon flavored or laced with the spiteful bastard’s piss. The sommelier will be around shortly for your wine selections – I recommend the toilet-fermented, vacuum-distilled ethanol for it’s sunny bouquet an’ it’s bold aftertaste. In the meantime, let’s start our weeklies, shall we? Lois, shall we begin with you?”

“Trevor ain’t said much, last time we was together,” the lean,