The paperback I’d been reading was beside my pillow. Yonabaru was counting his bundle of confessions on the top bunk.
“Keiji, sign this.”
“Corporal, you have a sidearm, don’t you?”
“Yeah.”
“Could I see it?”
“Since when are you a gun nut?”
“It’s not like that.”
His hand disappeared into the top bunk. When it returned, it clutched a glistening lump of black metal.
“It’s loaded, so watch where you point it.”
“Uh, right.”
“If you make corporal, you can bring your own toys to bed and ain’t nobody can say a thing about it. Peashooter like this ain’t no good against a Mimic anyhow. The only things a Jacket jockey needs are his 20mm and his rocket launcher, three rockets apiece. The banana he packs for a snack doesn’t count. Now would you sign this already?”
I was too busy flicking off the safety on the gun to answer.
I wrapped my mouth around the barrel, imagining that 9mm slug in the chamber, waiting to explode from the cold, hard steel.
I pulled the trigger.