by Jake Bible
“Of course.” Archard was willing to bet a month’s pay that it was nothing. Kids would be kids. Even on Mars. Still, it was something to do besides paperwork. He saved his daily report to finish later, and turned to the communications console. “Heads up, people. Where is everyone?”
“Sergeant McNee here, sir. I’m in the armory.”
“Private Pasco, sir. The sarge has me mopping floors.”
“Private Everett. Target range.”
“Gear up, men,” Archard commanded. “We’re taking the tank out.”
“Some action, at last,” Pasco said excitedly.
“Don’t get your hopes up, buddy,” Private Everett said. “It’s not like we’ll get to shoot anything.”
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